After our fight
this particular fantasy
is a fantasy of apology.
I wear my hurt on my sleeve
while my hair grows past my knees –
till at last you
You crawl upon your elbows
and I cry but you cry more
we are swimming in penitence
awash with repentance
and profound desperate love.


trincomalee mornings


i watch my bulbs clasp the thinning edges of the wall,

like fingers knitting light

it is not yet ten o’ clock

the morning before Christmas


in my impatience i started reading

from the last line upward

so the image was of a basin of letters

sloshing around, breaking in ink

against the sides of my screen do you

remember how you said, last year, “it’s not that.

it’s just that i’m very aware

that all we do is exchange words”?


you were solemn in your message

-is it the sea that’s been weighing you down?

perhaps the need that has returned

with winter

to mute your thoughts before me

with the translucence of those large billowy wrappings

the beige sun has chased away

all your reckless serenades


i don’t mind.

and this morning at the end of december

as i pull myself out of bed

and let the…

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