Otter’s first love was not
a rough wave,
soft fingers, strong wrists –
not the shrill call
of gulls
moving against cliffs –
not the smooth sweep
of stone in paw,
the cracking of the oyster –

floating on his back,
he watched the boats
come in to land –
might he hoist a bright sail
over his belly too
and feel it tauten
in the wind?