Writer Moe

What is the edge of love?
One moment, solid ground.
Then something… lost.
Water rising through the earth
this shifting landscape.

That threshold of sleep,
that hidden threshold.

Is it water, contained by only dry continents…
then, destroying their edges? Lapping.
Eating
Owning.

The shore, a watery, drifting place…

(a perfect toe dipped in. cool. groomed.
willing to walk on glass for love….
prince charming and cinderella, on the wet edge of blood)

Dive in, swim
sound depth and
mark twain:
pull the boats in.

What is the edge of love?

Wild men, in longboats,
beating shields, then wrapped in furs,
North Sea storms, the Atlantic
beckoning, limitless

Leif, ice flecked beard, his maiden
surging beneath his ship,
dragons mouth gaping,
gasping,
the moan of the timbers
as water wrapped around,
kissing down the ship’s spine,
both
mad, with love
limitless, in love of the water, with love,
the water and waves,
unbound
unsound
unsounded.

Lost

in love, limitless, depths that crush if plumbed.
“Where the edge/
What home have I left?” Leif
breast bare above the prow,
salt stinging his eyes.
Stars above, the unfathomed sea below.

What is the edge?
Where the difference?
Why such cost?

I love you. I murmur your name above the waters. I have always loved you.