South Shore Harbor

// Beau Boudreaux

Waves lick the long shore
bobbing skiffs moored in the marina

raise their sails like flaps
of envelopes waiting for their messages

as if cold, or sick with fever
her voice shook when I touched her arm

her tipped globe of Bordeaux
waving around my face a violet perfume

when I looked her in the eye
she turned away to address the commodore.