If you wait, he won't come,
if he won't come, who will wait —
I tell myself
and because he doesn't come, I wait.

You've receded too far to call to,
you no longer show even your back —
you come from the horizon,
rushing in like the tide,

you rush in
but never make me wet,
stopping short at the tide-line far below,
irritatingly undulating.

On the hillside
I turn dry like sand.
Behind my eyelids
the seascape again dims into night.