She bobs in the water
pale cork, pale-haired
lily pad with tendrils in the
deep cold dark.
(Stones in her pockets,
they said later, a Virginia Woolf
rip-off.)
I see her from my bay window.
She gleams as she floats;
she startles the ducks.
I wait for the joggers to find her,
bouncing along asphalt until
they trip on the light slanting
off her.
It's early, though.
The sky is still bleary-eyed and bloodshot.
Red sky dances along the water.

I rest, still, thin, the eyelash on your cheek,
brushed off when midnight blue melts into peach.
And when you steal away this room will reek
of ***, smoke, and gin. Echoes of slurred speech,
and cigarettes smoldering exhaled breath,
haunt two souls spun in liquor and lost dreams.
We chased and tried to hold that little death.
Groaning, clutching, I watched the ceiling's beams,
and thought about him sleeping, home, alone.
He sits between us now, a ghost in pink,
a morning dove cooing. Soft hearted stone,
you pull tight your steel-colored tie, a drink
of warm gin, button your coat, close the door.
I fold back rumpled sheets, but what for?