Night works a dark purple down the loom.

Again, I watch dawn unravel those rows,


a weaving and unweaving no less coy

than Penelope producing her burial shroud.


Please let today end. I am desperate to feel better

and know days will trudge past this point with me in tow.



Sleepless, I walk A1A, right down the middle, feeling the road warm under my bare feet. Street reflectors glow orange, like little matches that light the way. Waves crash, and a distant car echoes this way or a frog chimes, soft reminder I’m not alone. Sometimes I walk until the sun touches the horizon, and blue jays warm the air with lust. At home, he sleeps on his right, arms and legs curled around a pillow. Yesterday, he teased: How does it feel to want? Sometimes the moon is a gold thumbprint in the indigo above a dark ocean. Sometimes nothing more than a slice through sky. Sometimes stolen, gone with clouds thick as dreams.