Our friends build a fire on the beach again.
We eye the drunkest one. He has a habit
of throwing sand on the blaze whenever his girl
Did I get your eyes right
in yesterday’s poem?
I’m tired of thinking of all you dead.
The black masks of your graves,
the visions you stir in me.
before the sky has gone to weeping, the trees
are scarred & bleeding sap. Chewed to ruin
by moths building tents in their leaves.
around 1, behind the H & M,
to send hot Caleb from Chem 6
who texted me a pic of his cousin in a ski mask