Long stripes of petrichor,
gather in the cuff-corners
of the nightwalk - I miss her,

the blonde from group therapy
however many years ago, L-----,
whose upper case traumas

mirrored mine on that beige couch
by the waiting room sand garden.
Hard-hided years, those,

& I hope she did OK.
Myself: I tried in desperation to marry
someone who simply didn't run,

& you can imagine how that went.
I remember seeing L----- on a Wednesday
or Thursday morning, so surprised

I existed outside therapy. Greening wings
of grass spread across Farragut's diagonal,
& her black shoe arch pressed the world

firmly away. She rafted into a doorway
as everyone eventually does in a life.
The sun called in sick, the moon

maw yawed and yawned, the sea
throbbed foam over stone. New rain
on my face - it was just rain, just rain, just rain...