My undertows are not the ones
I show you
Sheets of ice stained with salt and
SPF 78 gunmetal grease runoffs
sucking back the xenon haze
No shells
No towels
No balls of greasy dough
Not even the quiet closure
of junkie needles in you heel to
Mark the hours passing
that vanishing point
Where fingernails and
necks and teeth
Conspire to meet,
Blind on February shores.
Leave a Reply