nothing

by margaret atwood from true stories

nothing like love to put blood
back in the language,
the difference between the beach and its
discrete rocks & shards, a hard
cuneiform, and the tender cursive
of waves; bone & liquid fishegg, desert
& saltmarsh, a green push
out of death. the vowels plump
again like lips or soaked fingers, and the fingers
themselves move around these
softening pebbles as around skin. the sky's
not vacant and over there but close
against your eyes, molten, so near
you can taste it. it tastes of
salt. what touches
you is what you touch.