Ocean turbid, sprawling under southern storm; dozing on my bed.

Floral quilt runs over-wave in intoxicating nostalgia.

But dusk wilts in the vase — your fragrance.

And dawn blooms on the doorstep — tomorrow’s problem.

Your ribs carve soft ripples across the sea,

Like the rivulets of waning sun trickling through the blinds, 

And streaking your face under my palm.

We lie in the half-light, eyelids drooping and dinner on the stove —

A watched pot never boils.

Where summer fizzles and sputters to her pitiful demise

In the damp earthen grave I dug for her in December,

And autumn yet teeters, hesitant, on the threshold; I’ll meet you.

Let me rest here, in the curve of your hip, the arch of your back;

The furrow in your brow and the scars on your knees.

The world decays beyond that sill — washed away like sunset’s blood with nightfall.

Or perhaps the insomniac yet gleams, burnished gold by dawn.

Apathetic, we lie in the heavenly in-between,

Traversing the coast of consciousness

Until the tide comes in.