Parthenon West Review

each bloodied anchor sweet in the rotting
sun. The moon bloats the blue sky, hungry

for this vacancy to fill, this howitzer shell of a day
without you, the history of us undone.

To the north the first star emits an odor of rusting
ploughs and a bird sings a song quickly

forgotten and my toe digs in the ground searching
for every lost minutes. My single love. This is where

age comes in handy. The end of black-and-white
thinking. The knowing we’ll stumble back again,

this day a shadow gobbled by a horde of unfinished
dreams making themselves as real as my desire

to fly backwards. Sometimes we laugh
when we make love. Remember?