And yet, returning in the night
is still enough. I climb down
from the plane into his soft
quiet, waves of talk drawing
us into the shore, our skin
lit like shadows of swimmers
returning across sand into
evening, his face before
bed a gleam drawing me
into the dark soft sough
of his breathing to rock
against the surf of spare
nighttime traffic, rock the stars
warm as tealights, blow shadows
through night into morning, soft
sighs returning on the surf
of the dawn as we rock into
light, still, then, returning
is yet, still, enough,
enough
still.