‍  ‍    ‍    ‍    ‍    ‍
the sea-tide sprays

like his thoughts

the wood splinters

gives way to gavel



the city emerges;

a beacon before me

strip malls and shops

adorned with their little bells;

bedizened with lights

every corner, every crease

here, in winter
I see



the ice melts

with his mind, in its time

his blood runs thick

as the skin it sits under



this heat will scorn whatever callous I sport,

so

the sun will burn whatever grudge off of me,

so


if you come home...