I sit, paralyzed to your
left palm anchors.

The sounds of rushing blood

in my house of two legs
and
calloused dreams.

There is a door behind you

always.

I try to breach the walls

but

I am refused.  I only have
eyes for you,

Sunken in the brine of

pain.

God who made me

Laughed.

He sent me to you.

The deck is fractured

in sorry  pieces.

And I have a limited
     time.

Do not wish me sorrows
and plaints on Summer days
which ended in the back seat
of your 57 Chevy.

Perpetually.

I breathe

         never you.


Caroline Torpey Shank
July 12, 2025