Washer Moon
On the fighting cells of my skin, your emission, warming, micro
Underneath, larger, more, more virulent, murders in a dark public garden
rising waters
your lowering, half embrace
Ikon above twice gutted hotel
the sea, an accomplice,
your half-filled basin, day of lone departure
many maddening crowds of foghorn
can’t drown out themselves in lower estuaries
of Dementia (imagining a mother’s brain
dreaming hanging her son’s clothes
for years to collect)
I come back (ensuring before you do)
meditate rocks
you have
chosen.