Wooden slats and a woman and.
Here is where the ocean moves,
linen as host, as roost—limbs
poured through. Mercenary is what
water is. Hug the lampshade,
gather in fists the below her
skirt. Don’t be afraid—the walls
of this room wear moonlight and.
Even if you never never. The froth
made by hard rain stokes the miles
you walked to find me, the bridge
you crossed flecked with passers-by.