He would
keep
her cool
and standard
with
thoughts
of brine
complexion,
the
jiggered star
of
unbloomed talks
and nights
without
nightgowns
along with
sad and
drained
dreams of
another
night in
folding the
molt.
She tongs
his visit
as she
describes it
in a
dish-tongued
voice of
semi-quaver:
“I see you
sleeping
as I come
aside
and you
whisper
nothings
like
traipses in
woods,
only
aggressively
hunting.”
She says
she doesn’t
care for it.
He is body,
in-
different
to the
sold sag of
his wares
described
simple as belly
and money
and the yield
of hard and
soft
conversations
on a
fantasy of rights.
He slaps
her with
a kiss,
calling it a night,
while she
gorgeously weeps
chardonnay and
drops of memory.
