Twenty-eight. Gingham.

He knows the moment
just before you step out of your body entirely.
He takes your hand and you are grounded again.
He manages this when there is less
than a second left, and you trace
the tendons leading up to his fingers
once, to indicate that you are still there.


A song. The salt in the air, the salt on skin.

These synchronicities have little to do with you.
You, too, are merely practice.


The first time you sleep together
you dream of plums, fish,
and a birthday party in which
everyone other than him was invited.
And you wonder why he hasn't made an appearance
in your dreamscapes since the first night you met.


Whatever. There is no time for this.
Feed the cats, make sure the birds aren't dead,
make a list. Go to the grocery store
and don't buy any oranges.

Standing by the ocean used to make you feel
like you belonged to something.


I am ready for the wolves now.