Boomslang Poetry

Wave Cut

Wait, under the soft cliffs,
while I conjure coconuts for your skin.

Hold, for the drum-thump tons
of shark water to pound in.

Hush, for high-tide rock pools
to form a mirrored plain.

Forget the otters, all rolling over, falling out,
those keepers of the kelp beds.

Go in deeper, finger anenomies,
let them suck you inside, inch by inch.