By Eris Sker
“the trouble with the city fog,” you say,
“is it feels like pre-grieving: trading one pearl tear
for another and pressing down
where the wrist bone penetrates skin.”
you say it with a lisp, a tell, a little undone.
“in the forest,” you say “the fog turns trees to schemes,
vertical traps. the shadows sticky with emptiness
like the sea behind the scenes;
contagious like a body
or the space for murder just off-stage.”
& I recall the multiplying undergrowth,
how we spooned up whatever moonlight we could find.
your breath on my neck, your wrist by my wrist,
our footsteps echoing, undifferentiated.
