There is no driftwood here:
only smooth pine tables
sheened with lavender wax;
delicate Sunday jazz
playing on a radio
behind the bar.
Scarlet tulips
in skinny vases
and the thin clink
of crystal glasses.

Washed up onto a corner
of this inland fantasy
I squint over glossed rooftops
and focus
on the slow and sleazy stretch
of the canal.

You have discovered the secret
of my Atlantic hunger;
you have touched my hand
and seen my grey eyes
turn Pacific blue;
you have engraved fossil spirals
into my rough palms
and heard a shipwrecking tide
building in my breath.

Knowing that salt
is the opium of my lust
you bring me raw gifts:
black olives
like sea-bed plums,
asparagus spears
plump and juicy as bladderwrack.
You feed me a brackish feast
and I smuggle your fingertips
into my mouth,
wanting to taste
the red brine
of your blood.