The metallic taste of those memories brings me back, bone-cold.
What a mess I’ve made.
Surfacing, time tarnished, he was
slender hipped, still as a moored ship,
saltwater skin on box-spring seabed,
always a lover of loosened knots, trespass,
the after-quiet, silence.
347 leagues is a long way to pray
when you find yourself facedown in the sand,
full of fire, slowly turning to glass,
unable to escape that sliver of God, displaced
beneath whirlpools, those oblique Black Sea eyes.
He could not be wrecked alone on that filthy island.
Inland, longing and bereft,
I am quietly ruined by the beauty
in believing
in nothing
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