this is a season of grays and lukewarm air,
and I am lost in myself, this unraveling dress.
how did we find ourselves in this bend? at the top of
of abandoned picnics and lost wine. far from
the soft wind of our darling soho and rebel east village;
avenue A where we walked in the gutter, side by side
towards corners of hollow rooms and shallow
kisses. I could taste the salt in that river air
and I could smell the ocean on your breath.
it was in the virgin grass of that hot spring,
the rise of your chest, the cracked paths and
puddled sidewalks; I was
a cage without a bird, breasts hollow
and knees bent crashing, in bed alone.
and you were no more than my quiet dream.