she washed my hands with rosewater: empty cathedral:
beach town in winter: snaps above the smoke rings
as the hearts unfurl: last week’s flowers hung
on a doorknob: drying: brittle: the sparks of their petals
on wormwood: in the mirror slow as motes in a window
she said I can’t stay: the thumbprint of her voice
from somewhere deep in the morning’s green-gray sea:
brush fire: breeze in the pines: her bare steps
in a doorway: sand in the linen: sand in my palms:
from Bicycle in A Ransacked City: An ElegyFind more by Andrés Cerpa at the library
Copyright © 2019 Andrés Cerpa
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Alice James Books.