fog curling
off the water makes me feel

like falling
off the world; some-

times it’s damn hard
to feel at home here,

the drips of our lonelinesses
bubbling up from a depth which,

in august, is of consequence
to no-one. the sky is as oppressive

as oblivion, a smoky mono-
chromed sheet where

the saddest lines are typed
in a cloudy times new roman

and tossed in God’s wastepaper
basket. we dream

of dragons and decembers,
snowfallen starlight, autumn’s

bittersweet gold like sun
on dappled saturday

mornings, like the flamed tendrils
of my strawberry hair

in the dark field of absence
behind your closed caramel eyes.