Nymphs

A certain body is drawn
to water, a certain other drawn
to that body. So specific grasses

anchor only in the slow-built dunes
or certain shores, or retard
a long-suffering windward

hillside in its sea-slide. In tall reeds
hands find flesh, below flesh
liquid; still lower

newer mixtures stir themselves—
the body sinks to its affinity.
When waves discharge at

the point break or slip into the silk
harbor with the returning fleet
a scent lifts from the catch.

Who wouldn't wish to be
the agent of their propagation?
Giving oneself over to the littoral.

Copyright © 2006 Jesse Lichtenstein All rights reserved
from Quarterly West
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission