in the sea, he is the poet. my little dark hair boy whose black looks hung rampart between green and white frothing waves. the way he can always get out there, i think he must swim just so, past all the hallmarks of the heart. i dont think i have ever known admiration until now, a feeling hysterically away from the world i am from. 

when the swell drops, when the night falls and we retreat back to the cottage fire, i am the poet (or something less ridiculous). i was indulgent and full of air, playing the role of some exotic courtesan, who shouts yeats across the kitchen floor. 

there is a natural elegance to his nervousness, like those small flowers he grows, like that absurd irish humour he draws from. yet there was no fear in him out there, before forty foot waves, loose and windy and whoosh, he’s up. exploding into another realm i could not follow. 

so it has been the headiest entrance into spring, and we could not tell villains from villainy.