a poem by
MAYBE IT WAS SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN LIKE THIS
mist, transient islands
and around an island
you vaguely know.
Water like wax, crabs scurrying
like busy teachers too tired to talk.
Street lights-- ominous red-eyed victims
of the lens, trembling and fake.
Hungry seagulls detecting bad dinner
on your breath.
And as you write this, breathing in July,
body wet with rain and sweat,
your lover sleeps alone, down the road.