Miles across the Oregon Inlet
with its Lilliputian peelers
and eight-cylinder anglers,
we found it.
Beyond live oak and shrub bog,
amid storm-huddled loblolly
and a mammoth tract of sky:
an A-frame peak, groomed
just for the two of us.
For you, a bowling left. For me,
a pitching right.
“Where two or more are gathered” –
But we knew angels were already
hovering beyond the whitewater,
inviting worship, demanding play.
Crossing the road, we found
their flung weapons on the dunes,
then saw them hurtle
from wave to wave:
skirt-hems adrift, alabaster fingers
brushing along the cusp of each
glimmering wall – all but roaring