NIN, Anaïs

She had long black hair and when she spoke

the hair covered her eyes, and you cleared them

by brushing the strands back, slipping your ideal

into her mouth, her long legs drawn against your

anticipation of some deep distress when you finish

later, a great shark of a ship hunting the strokes,

spliting the pearl clam open with your

simple breathing foaming hurricanes,

when they reach half-way suddenly still --

the anchor falls through the splash

raging down our street released

to an undetermined depth.