Sillage is a terrible excuse to dwell in the past.

After Last Light

A moonless night cliff-side steals the sea
from us. What was sapphire beyond churlish blue

is just howl now: waves darker than closed eyelids
wreck the rocks we also can’t see. Sunlight forgot

the two of us here. The taste of salt, an ungiven kiss
on our lips. And silence is the rush of blood

in our ears, a violent pause between your question
and what I will not say. I have no answer;

My throat is the ocean now.

 

*I found this original poem in my pending posts. Still not sure why I never posted it.  It’s been ruminating for two years now – perhaps it’s improved with age.

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