A woman can restore the soul of any broken man
—Esthero  

The man from the mountain
does not stop talking until he sees her  

go archipelago and forget the shattered
brown glass bottles that are her feet

once she breaks free from sand
and steps without fear once again

into the tide—his mouth,
which she is convinced is perfect  

with all the stars that lie lodged there, falling—
tumbled tiger’s eyes into her open  

palms, closes for once, becomes ordinary
at the glamour of her dissolving so into  

daylight—she does not hold it against him.
Any man’s lips would purse shut before  

the mirage of a woman who remembers
quite suddenly that she is not only woman,  

but something else
entirely.