There's a kind of hoping—
one that not even laundry
for your perfumed checkered
shirt can come close to
removing, and I hid myself
under a shed in front of
a ridiculously early-closing mall
without an umbrella, expecting
the rain to pass in about thirty
but it's the hope I've ever known
and I deny this is all a dream
but it's the dream that recurs
and carries on, unlike you—
a vexing drizzle; why can't you
just be a century-long storm?
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?
