THE OCEAN IS A METAPHOR
One hand is inside of my mouth
the other is holding the door shut.
This place is communal, even the wine.
Someone is shitting in the toilet next to the shower
where you are fucking me.
Outside the Russian olive trees are in bloom
they smell like they are dipped in milk.
My blood on your tongue is salty.
I have not yet cut off my wet hair.
Tomorrow, everything will fall out of me,
beached on the shore.
I left you
and I guess I don't really know you
aren't dead because I threw everything
away even your suicide notes
and then I started writing
poems, not because
you introduced me to Artaud but because
you made me forget how beautiful flowers are.
For example, the brown eyed primrose or
how my fingertips smell after
I rub a mint leaf between them. Yes,
you made me forget how much I love hands.