Wrapped all around the headland house
are windows that grow out of glass foundations,

in your fingers the stem of a champagne flute
clear as the sea-pool I float in below

with fish-bones and handfuls of diamond sun,
where my feet cannot touch the ground

where you swallow a mouthful of wine
oblivious of the blue-white cry in my throat, and

I must, there is no other way, I must swim,
and hold on to the splinters of sun on your face.