Salt Scoured

considerations on helplessness

I crave anywhere but here. 
Maybe the sea with a
sharp scouring of salt 
wind and sea air.

Heavy, unforgiving silence hangs
thick in the air, as if a country 
between us where a cluster of 
regulated stars weave through 
your unsaid regrets while rigid 
delineations of before and today 
hold fierce, prominent concern.
Where both embrace and gesture
will fail to sooth as finite margins
corral your imploding grey world
and I have a sudden unreasoning 
need for the sea.

I crave anywhere but here. 
Salt-scoured, like the sea.
I need the wind, a salty
spray, sharp sand on skin.
Exfoliation. A scrubbing.
Craving the burn, I need 
to smell the sea.
Craving the burn, it is all 
I can think about.

I crave anywhere but here.