In the aftermath, like dull nuisances of a regular night
the lapels of the stars come out. There is no one but quiet.
The sky, a beastly lagoon, beastly like the sound of the
trucks full of sand waiting to cross the river
to some foreign land, sends a mothering hand down.. a river down.
I, an unhappy mosaic of time and life and love and earth,
fade into the distance—a looping wire. In these muddy hours,
the blue fastens its anchors to these lapels—these shabby lapels
nobody sees or wears or touches, and so it is a rare memory,
a coping item to hoard. Remember how once we rebelled to
grow big, for more minutes under the sun in the sea, where
nothing except the liquid horizon cuts itself into the sphere
that holds all this grief. Remember, even, the truce
between the fighting fishes under the foamy water
that breaks and mends and cracks and crashes.
Now, I am ashamed to be held here.
Nothing feels like a memory.
Everything has died and dried into a memorial,
a blanket,
a sinking pod of Ephemerals…
the lapels have killed the child in me. 

AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO
AUTHOR BIO