pulse

you have tethered the big rubber dinghy
to a tree on the sea shore
so it floats, just off the beach

and the three of us climb aboard
and, as you insist, put on silk blindfolds
and nestle down on soft blankets
on the supple floor of the boat

for awhile we just bask in the sun
while our friend regales us with descriptions
of amazing brilliantly-coloured
deep sea creatures —
how they move, effortlessly
through the water, pulsing,
their fins and flippers and tentacles
sliding, guiding them through the sea

we can almost sense them
floating under and around our boat
as the waves push us, gently,
almost to shore and out again

pulsing, like a whale’s song

the air is the perfect temperature of our skin
and we imagine it is like this, too
for the creatures in the sea —
no boundary between skin and air and flume,
just one being flowing
outside of time

the sun comes out and warms us, and then retreats
and comes out again, as if to reassure us
it is there still and always

and then a sun shower, the strange feeling
of the sun’s heat and the cool drops
at the same moment
making us laugh

and the breeze is just a whisper
caressing us, teasing us to open to it

pulsing,
like a jellyfish spurting toward the ocean’s surface

the boat ripples with the waves
and follows them toward the shore
and away again

and now your fingers softly brush across our bodies
infinitely gentle touches
smoothing on the oil
that protects and lubricates,
arouses and calms

pulsing,
like the ripples of moonlight on the night sea

so we return the caresses
feeling our way sightlessly
each fingernail sliding deliciously over curves,
each firm hand gliding along flanks and sinews
until our whole bodies are engaged
in the exchange, every nerve ending
teased to the surface

pulsing, like hearts beating, lips sucking
in the still moment of a first kiss

and then, still laughing and smiling
we splay back out under the sun,
barely touching each other
and lie silently, listening to the surf,
feeling the sun and subtle wind and gentle rain,
taking in the scent of lilikoi, spider lily,
limu and coconut

this moment is complete —
it has no intention to it;
it is not leading to a conclusion,
a catharsis, a resolution;
it is just what it is

the cycles of caresses and sunshine and breezes
and raindrops and waves and scents
and breaths flowing in and out
fold over each other and back into one

there is no end to this moment,
no need for it to end, no limit to it,
it is always and has always been

there is no purpose or meaning to this
no objective, no need for anything to be done
there is nothing to be lost, or found, or held on to
no tomorrow, nothing that should be otherwise,
no need for any work, any striving,
anything different

there is only
this

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