Out in the middle of the water
where everything is black,
the only sound the echoes
of waves lapping boat sides,
shadow-casting eerie green on
the underbelly of docks.
On the the water’s border,
with sounds close and violent,
I talk to you about
yellowjackets and dying,
wondering what
your grief tastes like.
Later, breeze peeking through windows
shake the sheets and stir
dreamy thoughts of boats so close
they talk to keep from lonely.
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