She supposes. A tin can dragged along the bed of sand by some line, hooked with a sharp pain. Mouth agape, I am a fish no longer hungry or awaiting feed. In the sun her hair is gorgeous, briefly done in a turning knot, and I love her in ways we don’t learn about at school. In the swimming pool I am drowning down slurs of shimmering /
I love you / forgot to take the bins / out later than expected you to call me a cab / in in some forest hurts from all the work / hard with no re / ward off the demons under the / weather or not I could tell her she’s the place I bury my love safe and / sand rests above it liquid licking at time second by grain gaining second
I suppose, dragging along a tin can over the bed of sand by some line, hooking with their sharp pain. Mouth agape, they are fish no longer hungry or awaiting feed, a breed, a grand deed or gesture. They tell me when my hair is gorgeous in the sun, done in a turning knot that takes twenty minutes but looks effortless, and they love me in ways they don’t learn about in school. In the swimming pool, they are drowning down slurs of shimmering and I take them to my mouth with reckless gulps.
I love you / told me it would last / ing imp / ression socks pulling off after the flight / or fighting / a losing game with a young lady lays on her back and thinks often of the scene I am swimming her to safety
Originally published in HT2020 print issue.
