From the Fishouse

In a stark room I knelt and reeling, felt the wooden floor.
Against losing I was leaning, praying you’d left behind
A long hair in the brine. Soft animal gloves protected my sores
From habitual picking and pulling. There’s a stain on my mind.

Against losing I was leaning, praying you’d left behind
At least cigarette smoke. I waited in the dark, bent away like a lone nail
From habitual picking and pulling. There’s a stain on my mind.
Your night laughter strung thick in the rafters like a contrail

Or at least cigarette smoke. I waited in the dark, bent away like a lone nail.
Pails of night walks, berries in bowls, the hidden door in your throat,
Your night laughter strung thick in the rafters like a contrail.
What if you’d ripped a breath hole in my long fleece coat?

Pails of night walks, berries in bowls, the hidden door in your throat,
I know I have dreamt none of it. The house has been empty a long time.
What if I’d ripped a breath hole in my long fleece coat,
If you’d secured a clipboard report of my truest, dearest rinds?

I know I have dreamt none of it. The house has been empty a long time.
Wandering the crown of any tree I was never more glad.
If you’d secured a clipboard report of my truest, dearest rinds
You may have noted my growing lump, my landing pad.

But wandering the crown of any tree I was never more glad,
A long hair in the brine. Soft animal gloves protected my sores.
You may have noted my growing lump. (Admit it, you’re sad).
In a stark room I knelt and reeling, felt the wooden floor.