The Pull

Which way South, underneath 
The four cornered table, all the breadth 
The look, the shove
From over and around, not up above 

The lovers hands meet, and take beneath
The only angle, the lovers leap
We try and just might
Let all things go
But no one does, all things turn and row
From their oars they pull
To cut through the water
And all forward go, they see to them
Full

For the trimmings gone to waste, a full field has grown
We always hold out, to new 
And found
We step towards the water, and feel the warmth below

The calm waters edge, swiftly pulling on the sand, from wake and toe