Revisionist Poetry – Two of Us (a.k.a. Angered Conversants, v.3)

We are the things the sea forgot —
salt-sanded, hollow where a heart once ran.
They come with voices like fast knives,
bragging the bright heat of being heard.

We remember other storms: slow presses,
the river’s grammar of rubbing and giving.
Barnacles hang like old punctuation;
sun has written its absent names along our ribs.

You pound the air with need. You break the air
into smaller, sharper pieces. We do not answer.
Our speech is the weather: small, repeating, patient—
a white line pressed across the same soft grain.

Tonight your anger is a quick, hot tide;
it bangs and leaves the shore strewn with phrases.
We hold the long seam where breaking settles,
the quiet work of letting edges become whole.

If you want a verdict, take the tide’s:
no favour, no scold — only this: we last.