Hawks cry. The penned dog barks.
Breath breaks the bud of silence,
and the murmur of leather on stone
echoes my ordinary sorrow.

Yesterday’s small cruelties
are forgiven under weedy clouds
that crest and fold like river waves.

Last night, a long-ago lover died.
When I finally slept, a dissonant apparition
with her face reminded me
I sleep on the edge of the world
where sooner or later everyone falls off.

She and I were feral cats, the ones
left by summer people who thought pets
were seasonal like bathing suits. We swam
in the clamorous dark, carnival calliope
and bare-bulbed lights in the distance.

When she asked me to move away with her
I asked her to stay with me.

Now, I walk as though I swim this hour—
sink as a wave knocks me under. I surface,
take that first breath,
the one that lets you know you won’t drown.