Splutter

Oh, the walking night…
the dark leaves play at frottage
over heads narrower and brighter than ours
on the inside. An apology spreads its wings
in the darkness above us. She flies away.

The shells of clams left on a night table
seem to hold drawings of the ocean’s body,
shapeless and unholdable as it is.

Deep in the night forest, a wealth of commas
becomes apparent. You think you hear an oar
but the boat is six feet under.