Fog

One of those days when
the end of the dock disappears in
an impressionistic swirl of cloud,
when everything is washed paler and
silence echos for miles across the window of water.
Lying face down, I hung my head
over the edge, hair brushing the green water,
let the blood rush, let the world turn. Let my ears
roar, you beside me, the air so wet, so
full of things to say.

I'm worried- the movies in my head are on replay.
I'm waiting for reality. I've been looking for it but
it slips away- I'm not sure it's here,
among the palm trees and the bricks,
I keep looking but all I find is the green water
and the gray dock and your silence.

Construction

After you hung up, I sat
staring at the brick walls of the room
the geometric red, the white an anonymous immigrant
laid in even stripes a decade ago,
boxy moments, even smooth time,
twelve stories of patient layers.

Not every stone is a struggle- but this one is.
After you hung up, I paused- inhaled-
and cemented.

12:34

The piles grew- a lifetime of possessions
in cardboard. We taped my life and you lifted
it into the trunk.
Months of moments, leading to this-

It was something like lead
deep in the pit of my stomach, the second
I turned to you,
the Subaru idling beside me.
There was no language, only a buzzing falling silence-
your arms, my face on your shirt,
and then it was over.