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
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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