inner compass poetry

This is the story
so far: I got off the bus
and into your car.

So far, so far, this
is what

we are: barefoot and stillness,

unmade bed,
dreams delaying

unused cabin
forest decaying


On the ferry, on the greyhound,
my seat on the plane
a cold cup of tea
a hot summer rain.

This is my kind of drowning,
into the cup on the table
falling in your arms, into
pretending that I’m stable.

(She is searching for a
scent to bring back 4AM)

To hear the train in the distance
is to know the thought is gone,
it is the exhale of admitting
that I couldn’t be more wrong.

(There is a train in her head
and I watched it go all the way
to the end of its tracks)

This is my kind of drowning,
a song from the south
movie credit sleepiness
your kiss on my mouth.

(In the night, she
wrote a note, over the
years, a memoir)

This is my kind of drowning,
in the library of our story
in the ocean on the map
in the murky sounds of sorry.