I see what you’re doing — vanishing to make me feel less alone.
Your thin skin easy in the moon’s quiet pocket, scuff
of pale blue.
I, too, want
to unhook myself from shore.
We are not narrow-hearted, simply responding to gravity’s dark crest.
Wait for the rush,
unseen but quickening, as the high-spired shell surrenders its song
only when brought close.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 19, Issue 3.
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