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8:05 in over the
blossoming street,

down a slatted
hall, sun still, the

mirrored doors open
enough, a mouth

hot down over my
bare arms and

the silence of
foamy wakes.

when the spring
of high talk, of

starlings shadowed
against the plate

glass bounds in
focus, you are at the

carpet’s edge.

speaking here sad
tongues on

twenty-two hours ago,
lifting back the pacific

veil, currents through
your clear eyes and my

eyes, not-so-clear, but
as young as ghosts:

they come from the
nowhere you call dust;

if this sieve of memory means
all of that to you