Writing on a Sunday, surely I figure you will find your hands pressed against my words come Tuesday eve. Do tell me if there have been any errors that would lead to the stall of my hearing from you. Oh, how I fret.

you’re leaned over the kitchen sink

copper and cowboy-mouthed

windows braiding flaxen light across your shoulders 

even in june the drip of sun wanes

the curtain is waxing

rib-lined and yellow

i’ve been split in two persons:

you and I, wriggling twin larvae

bleeding blue into polyester

Tiger-eyed and lambent, pulled down by soaked clothes,

incarnadine the sea with me, my love.

I am not a bad person.

I find love at the end of the world

I imagine we’re on the train bound for Georgia

i. there’s a cigarette stain blistered on the lampshade and i still remember the oil spill in your eyes.