the hills and valleys of my cheekbones
short of breath between my words,
flustered, i am the irritation in the shells.
listening to the sea, is such a small
absolution; the mariner and his tale
are hiding inside him, even as the
birds circle above. i am a dying radio
signal that casts about for an understanding.
your cough in the dark was unsettling.
the night terror is folded into my cells--
inevitably never tasted so much a cold metal
but a dense, lukewarm bile that wracks my
lungs with your contagion of distrust.
the recurrence is a pox upon my house,
the fence has been ransacked by the wildfire.
a sudden heaviness is all i have to show for my
nonsensical hope of what we could have been.
have i created my own reality? i should have been
a luminous angler, shuffling the lonely seafloor
collecting the remorse of the nations.
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