The Tide

by Mark L. Butler

Beach,
Endless beach,
And so many trees to climb.
This is where
I would bring her
to spend her legs
beneath me.
And the dunes,
Like breasts;
That call me
From
My bed.
If only I could
Touch.
Waves, tide, current
I do not understand.
And yet
I, too, am the tide;
Ebbing
And flowing
On the beach
Of her nakedness.