Mirrors could not bring us close enough,
hands reaching at the water’s edge
suspended like a thread contoured
to your trembling lips.

Resemblance is not touch;
it is not hearing the current swell,
breaking distance,
fingers left to dance.

It is resignation:
the kind that waves,
that walks until the vanish,
and turns with its dawning eyes
to say

we are
we were once before

remember the nights
the way we questioned
how beautiful it was
to dream without sleeping
and where it all goes
when that border is crossed

We are there now
only one is lost
left pulling at strings,
hoping our hands meet somewhere
at the water’s edge.

They will not.
Mirrors could not bring us close enough:
no matter what I saw of you in me,
it was only me.
I know how much you kept.


This is the pain
the break
the sunbathed silhouette
in broad day seething
like a deafened hear me
I am not known.
And I wonder
was something lost
in the eyes when you found them
gouged with their tears
and did they stain
fallen on the skin
like a blistered riverbed
and did it scar
into a marble cataract

until the lattice fell
and it all became the night?

The Shore

I am these waters,
swept in all its braids,
a brushstroke of the gliding moon.

I am its child tracing,
building ruins in the sand
with voiceless ink.

I am the canvas
for the hand print and
its archive.

I am the oysters shell,
and its pearl, but
I am not reason.

I am not the book
you read to know, nor
its binding.

I am the footprint
just before the wave.
The hope of tread,

of knowing for a moment
the hand is near, and
saying goodbye forever.