Our moon returns. This plain, our Gulf, reflects
with lightning from an isolated storm
the distant stars of oilrigs, remakes
horizoned constellations on small waves
along this level shoreline where seaoats
bear up the sparse vines of ipomeas
 
now opening, near dawn. Spectacular
this moonlit blue, or amethyst, half-dark,
almost unseen, her swimming form that breaks
those windless patterns, just offshore, this sand
marked only by our footprints. Now that storm
moves to the west, diminishing, as she
 
comes rising from the water, turns, her hair
backlit in moonlight, diamonds, as she looks
or whispers towards the Gulf, as I, reclined,
consider morning glories opening:
their consubstantial azure mirroring
the way she walks towards me in this light.