your hands grow
heavy in the half light
i liked the way
the passing silence
of the hours
curled shadows
across the lines
of your face

i don't remember
the sound
of your voice anymore
just the soft
sighing rattle
of your chest
as the sun
slowly shapes
its fingers,
my coffee
growing colder
on the kitchen table

there is a red sun
setting in the mountains
i remembered your letter
on the kitchen table
unraveling the unsteady pulse
of your memory
into the half light

where are the early mornings?
the music playing
quietly as the pale
warmth of the ocean
passes like a mirror
beside the windows
of my car

we each keep sending
our own regrets

the window is open
to the sound
of the water
sighing

the light
from the waning
moon
speaks softly
to the corner table

you left
a glass by
the kitchen sink
pale pink tracing
the line
where your lips
had been

i dreamed
of the ocean again
last night
silver lined
the water and
the hanging
shadows of the gulls
the waves
curling like fingers
against the sand

you left
the window open
the smell of
the rose bushes
shifts with a breath
across the pages
of an open book

there was an answer
in the way
the trees pass
pressing budding branches
against the silvering
pull of the sky

i think of the silence waiting
in an empty room
the light peeling
like skin as the day fades
spreading shadow and
the smell of dust
along the growing edges
of the carpet

old leaves
follow
the curve
of the water
and now
that the rain
has ended
the trees bend
their branches,
heavy with the push
of the fading season,
towards the shadows growing
in the long
fingers of the grass