incongruent
These things i know:
every love song
is a road South,
late-night storms taste
like stolen whiskey,
and sometimes
you can see milk-
pale moons in blue
noon skies.
Those days inquiet
rises like an incoming tide,
restlessness
my aubade to
her midday moon-
shadow. We
walk river-paths
alone, watching
seagulls settle
in white clouds
like late-October
cotton along the road
on fields south
between here and the sea.
If you listen,
you can just smell
the oaky breath
from the beating of wings.
