call it hope, or the autumn of living
the avenue where
you ate the last fish
as it held your lost stare
(contemplation’s false glare)
and the dark apple
current
pulling luck under
in the back row seat
of certainty’s corner
we fed our fill
on the silence of empty
and burnished long scars
still shiny with memory
until sky led to sea
in the bed that was always
losing its way
we reached for warm hands
over-stuffed
with the blind weight
of grief
grasping for sand
as it spilled down
clean sheets
and returned to the water
salt bled us
…
