Everything is a worn red pincushion,
an alabaster lamp of yellow light going nowhere.
Everywhere I look, there are things beneath things
and hecklers taking liberties with each evening’s cold.
Always, the rosemary breath of before I knew you
reminds me that the sun sets wherever I used to be.
Never before had the asphalt sweat smelled as black
as the morning you asked me to tell you your name.
I know now what your crow's feet have been warning me,
what the glow of your imagination would never confess.
There is a dizzy sort of calm that comes with seeing
me wear warmly the pale blue skin of asphyxiation.
Off the Coast - Spring 2013