The sun is a sinking thing again,
the slow drown
of a recurring dream.
We drink freshly-squeezed horizon,
catch the pulp of day between our teeth
and the tongue is speaking in waves,
is a salt-balm for the words,
ear-shell lamenting echoes
in the ship-wreck silence
of a swallow.
Just how many times
can a door be a leaving,
before it forgets how to open.
Love this one Check out this “You’re too..”
