Because we knew I’d be the one hurt

I want to follow the broken Vs of geese.
I know their awkward hopeful song.
They are flying the wrong way, east,
toward the rising sun. Instead I would go west

where, orange, our hope set. The sun drowned
so beautifully. You snapped a photo and
the night before, the string of possibility,
that white spider’s thread between

hearts and tender intimacy. I resignedly agreed
and bled, not wanting you to see me wrapping
the frayed end around my finger
like a child’s simple reminder

of what to do when the time comes.
Yes, west: I would wade in the place
where the sea once rolled in dark
around my unlawful feet, pulled

ancient sand from a spoiled shore
while you mourned the awful coast
grain by grain out from under me
to help me see.


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