She’d drawn me to herwith her sylphlike confessions;lilted, with the sweet slurof a flute’s tongued perfection.
Little house with strange gravitystretches sunbeamsinto sonnets:4–4–4 and 2…
Amidst rural roads with winding persuasionsand gravel runoffs, the ocean breath stirredin sonic translucence — calling a place she once knew.
I play hide-and-seekwith the past while taxied,waiting for my own moment to leave.
Reading the past,your postcards from promenades,whilst listening to Morrisseyby the sea,with the voice of memory.
I once knew a personwho inhabits half a house.