It’s a coyote howl
against a Bloody Mary moon;
panting awake wet
from the shivering ache of a nightmare
in which you'd found contentment;
a cold stroll in the dark
as footsteps not your own gain ground;
black-sooted bricks, phallic
within the smoky smolder
of everything lost;
dipping your toe into cobalt blue
and hoping for a few moonlit ripples.
It’s bumping into her,
stammering at the green in her eyes,
reminding her of your name.
Crack the Spine - Issue 76