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.