Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Saturday, February 13, 2010


sun so hot, even when not on our skin.
we lay far apart.

disparate satellites burnt from whirring through
our weeks.

the light waters in once the night passes; the cool's come on.
a 3am chill, created a cave around us and like
there was elastic between our bodies
we snap back together.

your murmur at the relief, the mumbling a low tremor
in the hairs at the nape of my neck.

i want to make ownership of this pretty moment;
but no matter how close i pull the shell
to my ear
i can't hear the sea.

everything's blocked out, filled in with sand.
every grain named and placed there by
the death of love
spent poorly and foolishly and savagely.

echoes that call in my cells, loudly.

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