Two fawns

Two fawns caught in the roiling soup.

Further than we once were,

but still fresh as morning dew.

Growing new from rusty salted dunes.

While hearts beat against bone and broth.

Pounding ripples trace every breath.

Each touch reflects.

Each taste to be remembered.

Oh night how your call rings,

and the stars lean.

In life, and in death.

Our heat collects and creates.

Two fawns born in the muck and green.