taken aback

our glances--like a stranger’s cigar-smoke in a distance rising to the warm azure sky--disperse
and a procession creases your forehead.

memories

have you ever swam to the bottom of a memory?
an unravelling song of sadness and sinking scripts amid seaweed
a scene of a hand slipping, struggling to find some solace
stones sliding down the spines of secret lovers
a cleansing of wounds washed ashore
summer brush-strokes on a wooden canoe under sparkling stars
a smiling figure swaying silently -– someone, somewhere that meant something
silver silhouettes sympathizing with dying souls

But, perhaps some memories are bottomless:
sudden flashes with no end

bystander

I watch a battle between a dream—unlit—sinking
and reality—narrow—bleeding :
Intimacy is always at the edge of an ache, a crack, a rupture
ready to leap over the edge of a rupturing crack

a ripple

This is the thing about old wounds — they are threads of bursting rivers winding and spiralling between the palms of a stranger whose persistent whispers form tidal waves.