Running

 

running my hand slow

through a tidepool

I catch my fingertip

in an anemone

whose sticky tentacles

taste my skin

the way a snake sticks

out its tongue

or a cat hangs its mouth

open for a minute

or a sommelier

draws the grape

and breath into her

palate with expertise.

holding a moment.

while beside us

along hard gray rock

a tide keeps running

 

—–

[Prompt: Write a poem that starts and ends with the word “running”]