One musty summer
I had one musty summer to dissect your absence,
feet clothed in patterns of salt, as I stood watching
the waves swell, like heaving, undulating strings of lungs.
Wish I had more of them to spare.
I'd piled up my clothes in the hotel room.
Later, with salt-crested feet, I'd re-enter this museum of pretense,
unstack them in all the ways we arranged our limbs after touching,
poke holes in cushions to let the feral sighs levitate,
unsew the leather edges of the shoes to see a taut thing come apart,
wishing I had less of them to spare.
Wishing that memoirs would return as seismic activity,
and stay until the seer crosses over to where the sun drops dead.
What if I had more of them to spare,
to make up fables that could erupt, and
burn holes into this muted act of spinning away,
churning out salt in a sea that could pool into my house,
like cat pee, from gravel.
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