your blazing eyes at 10:43 p.m.
glancing across the kitchen table, and
her hair damp with southern
humidity and restrained hunger
your tears, Sunday morning drunk,
exposed until you fell asleep, her
hands removing loss like dust from a
tabletop; you have no idea what you
lost
your mouth saying nothing, standing
at the corner of Summer and
Atlantic, on time for a southbound
train, but much too early for her comfort
your pallid cheek in lamplight,
weary
with conclusions of the Yankee Inn, asleep
when you said you could not, faint scent
of lavender, and murmured invocations
© 6.6.2018 heather brager
 |
| Vladimir Fokanov. |
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