Between My Hands and Yours I have learned how to ruin what is tender. It is a craft, like weaving, only backwards. Last night, the moon balanced itself on the rim of the bay. Even the tide seemed to hesitate Unsure in her ebb and flow Some people are rivers, Predictable and glimmering, But you are the black shelled water, On the floor of the bay I reach for your solidness Never certain How much longer I must hold my breath, If I will drink your sweetness Or be swallowed whole What is it about love that makes you sharpen your teeth?