by Viggo Mortensen

Pieces of you drift by in the dead of the afternoon
on the yellow tip of a wave.
The same shark that came to shore at the end of yesterday
rolls sickly
bumping coral like a tired drunk
to avoid being eaten at low tide.
He is not afraid of me, I am thinking of you.
So much gone from memory that I am left with just your teeth

Last updated November 12, 2022