Sometimes, she’ll be

hard, unrelenting.

I, a glum wayfarer,

on a beach swept

by her wild fevers,

offer phosphor-songs,

bream of contrition.

A sleeted trail clambers

over the sharp headland

of her regard,

which I must scale,

hope abandoned.

Stormy and threatening,


that split the cataract

of my soul,

billow over her

hard eyes of obsidian,

and dizzying brows.

If I reach the summit,

I’ll stroke that fine

dark hair

and serenade the

sleeping lizard in her.

I’ll cup the

ripe, terrible apple

of her sleep.

2 thoughts on “Sometimes

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