Anchor

Come closer, April, as I seize advantage of you.

I ship my worries through your channels,
watching expectantly the hardened shore,
attempting to gather shells with which
their combined force I might blast open
the one-way wormhole from my ear
to the bottom of the lullaby sea.
The shell evolves into a telephone
just for me. Spanning several summers,
my voice uncoils into melancholy,
a hot whisper knowing not the depth
of the ocean, but plunging deeper still
to the sandy bottom where I left you in my soul.