Sunlight beads on the open curve
of the road, the blank page
I found myself moving
the wrong way to near the end;
not here
like the sidewalks or tress
or rain that hide me when I walk;
here only in the gentle melody of a dawn
that slowly drains the night.
It floats along Bayou St. John, through the cracks,
a hero or midwife, the border defined but undefended,
deliverance without killing butterflies;
it’s as much the ritual as the muse,
being a prophet in real time, that with will
will push the weed through the concrete and cold wind
that sweeps down the street.
Left with just the core,
makeup smeared and hair a mess,
you swam to where the reef used to be;
sliding down along the sand but not washing ashore.
In her backdoor we strain to divine roses
left as they hungrily drink the breath
from our last kiss.
Do you see the seaweed at epp hour
and dare to touch the shore?
There is a mist that waits to become
the ocean swirling beneath, somewhere
outside the soluble border
between oil and water, here
where I wait for you.