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.