He could not have predicted,
by logic, stars or quivering rod,
how kissing the crescent moon rising
from her shoulder swelled
her ocean tides, breaching
the levee of her composure.
Nor, whilst tucked in the aromatic
timbers of her hull, breathlessly
gripping the ivory gunwale
of her thighs – starboard and port,
that he’d gain his sea legs
whilst on his belly.