Mio, he will come,
he will come in colors parched
and talking always of the sea --
stinging smoke, coarse red wine,
leaning in the hallway half in shadow
I caught his mouth in mine;
my Mio, how he talks of the sea.
Mio, oh Mio,
gasping for violent sea --
dribble hands through quick water,
wet your face abloom and tender,
and flee for the softer fables
of the ancient,
welling sea.