Her: time to go? says who though? just time to go. but there is laundry left unfolded. but the bed can’t make itself. but the smell of last night’s grief isn’t done with settling down. tomorrow. what if that never comes? at least the shoes are put away. at least the tea’s been drunk. at least the disorder of sheets outlined the sleeping shape of one. is there no one else to wait for? no one. so it’s time to go. where to? yesterday.
Her: salted sidewalks. as if an ocean covered this city and shedded skins of her revelations behind her. last night I dreamed of buoyancy at the price of thirst. foam art reaching white ringed on fabric, salt rubbing in wounded sole, heeling. this morning i found a way at the expense of my shoes. Him:
Him: Her: something else over something. petal over bud. ice over petal. hand over ice. mitten over hand. thaw. something over something else. bitterness over emptiness. sadness over bitterness. loneliness over sadness. laughter over loneliness. thaw. a hint of spring in my hope, glass melting in my throat, the remembered scratch of your coat something over something.
Her: at the edge of the wood stands an iron tree, planted from the rooted shaving of memory rusting. skin oxidized from a lack of use, passion red cracking. tossed in anger to flower the bitter cold, drawing white snow at its feet into light steady, slow. did you always already know? at the edge of the wood stands an iron tree, waiting in the rooted shaving of memory for me to come home. Him: