Palms

Turning my palms

toward your hands

is an effortless motion.

Turning, the palms

yearn over the sands

and yaw with aubades of the ocean.

Last night was something

to be sung about,

but who could divine worthy lyrics?

You in my clutches,

wriggling like a mustache,

and both us cloudbusting our spirits.

Be beneath the porte-cochère

at midnight and I will be there.

Day will come and, with it, ships --

including one I mean to miss.

A quarter to four now,

the ti’ punch is poured out.

The hopefulness, boredom, and anxiousness swirling.

And now half past eight,

but the sun is still hanging

too proud in the sky to avoid prying eyes.

Eleven PM. I’ll not be caught dozing.

Soon, my skin will never be 

without yours again.

Now the clock’s gonna chime.

My valise at my side.

Is that your shadow creeping toward me with the tide?

Be beneath the porte-cochère

at midnight and I will be there.

Be beneath the porte-cochère

at midnight and I will be there.

Be beneath the porte-cochère

at midnight and I will be there.

Be beneath the porte-cochère

at midnight, be it spring or snare.