We sense it like the waves to come—
not explicit anticipation, more
as a prelude to specks in the light
because once there you can’t return
He always worked fast and angry like
a man in prison without the leisure
to be less feisty or humane

The waves of snow outside while
he stays, all cozy to be inside
with you and the loss of direction
and sweet words of illusion are like
some consummate actress who lies
because her role requires her to persuade,
edify and otherwise escape

His mind is made of waves
that work their works like when
a person you care for is removed
from your sight in an ambulance
because she took too many pills
and maybe wants to die or at
least be relieved of her pain

You studied the waves at university—
a largish place of many souls
where it’s not clear what
the right course is, how to
register for it, who will teach it,
where it is held and what
exactitudes will flourish

The waves are like being touched
because after we fuck she must
go home and she doesn’t even
want to deal with a cab driver
“It’s okay, baby, I’ll
take the train” like the loss
of flight or illusions

The wily, watery waves—
He visits us and eats what we set
before him without pleasure or
complaint and then insists that
we serve the same food to him
for the duration of his stay because
he must strain for control

A life of waves like
succinct patterns that sway
to our benefit because given
enough time the bugs in the
process become fine designs
that transcend this broken-up
and sadly selfish person




-March 11, 2017-