some sea-breeze billows through

this inland city, held aloft by high

moaning winds. you can smell the

brine & the seagull shit, the long

seaweed stalks you pick up &

whirl around like a lasso. i watched

you siphon gas beside a mountain

road once, on the way to durango,

i can hear you retching in the grass. i miss you.

i am afraid to break the ice, what

did i do, nothing, nothing, and yet.

my shoulders ache from burden.

consider this a next-best-thing, the

words of embarrassment wrought

tangible. i am sorry for the current

of humanity’s river, which branches

rather than combines—unnatural,

flows from the sea to the peak of an

old bored mountain. a cataclysm and

a bland orange fire the same brain

signals, how gullible our brains are to

little sparks that crest like sperm whales,

yet i want it, i want it, to press my cells

like guitar frets, let each one ring as

sound waves crash into pale skin and oh how

there is never enough time for a proper

telephone call in a world full of phones.

there is a man with two flags standing on a

bench on the sunrise esplanade

practicing his semaphore signals

as the morning joggers pass him

like bipedal canoers. a lilt of steam

rises from the willamette river

while the sun streaks by for the

nth time. i eat a bland sandwich,

i stare at the ripples in the water,

prod my psyche for any semblance

of an answer. a couple passes. how

can they talk and run at the same

time, i’ll never understand. my

body was built for small feats of

strength. i drink water. i stare at

water. i am water. you are water.

i miss you and the way the room was you.