Rain came loud
and hard, but
a Debussy classic
from his phone is
too competitive
Earlier, Takeuchi
filled his cup with
plastic, linear
memories—
but they don't pull up
an imagery with
you in it—
his senses have rid
itself of you at last—
and that's home
YOU ARE READING
Albeit flawed,
PoetryI was basking under the sun-the waves muffle the sound of my breathing; and I bury myself with cautionary confidence in the sand and with it the memory of your four faces. How can something lethal be life-restorative?
