We could talk about teeth
in a dimly lit room.
The bending of a saw blade.
Grungy-haired guys play them
like violins
—the eerie of its bend
off our skin, the walls.
When I talk of stolen waves
she is beguiling with her lips.
She’s thinking of punk playlists,
a surfer in a wetsuit—
And before we go too far
she tells me to put one on.
I hate that shit.
I should know better. Think
about saw teeth and skin.
Instead, I think waves.
Whenever sharks
creep in my head
between sets,
my hands pushing through
the water’s edge,
I do everything
to divert attention—
The peaks above surface:
Even when the what if’s
grin in the murk below.