Valentine, 2017

​a last wish: to be carted out
on the ice after supper. 
let the moon drag that
silver leg over me and
we'll see what's left. 
I am aware of the fish
those old monks who've 
given up on air. what a deep
blue world they pray in. 
their lips pursed up
to steal something from
the sad sky. it's all in the 
leaning, what the trees do
to also surrender: extend,
throw some weight into
it, break the wooden ankles. 
easy to miss the crickets,
frogs, face of an old lover. 
I am so lonely now, all
in white on a supposedly 
red day. "try breathing,"
a familiar voice says
and as if it makes sense,
I do.
​