ne·pen·thes

~

In a dream

I gathered shells

while you surfed

sand sucking my heels

I watched your body disappear

the wave like a blue eye closing

~

an abbreviated list of things that cannot be unseen:

sparrows crowding the sill

blood on the patio

a glass tipping

my breasts

the apricot moon

your hands trembling

~

Half-full at the approach of night,

Lamarck writes, the plant is an urn

into which a bug flies, slipping

from air into syrup,

whole days

when you can’t get out of bed.

Thickness pins your limbs,

props your eyes open. What I wish

for you always: short night

into morning.

I stand at the lip

looking in, until the insect stops struggling.

~

the rim of the sea wall

almost complete

the tide at Long Beach

tempered by concrete and rock

no more waves

to drown or surf in

there are side effects

you say to everything

~

wine-dark sea

was the phrase

we were trying

to recall

the evening

we snuck

into the museum

and stood before

the glass case

of rare butterflies

almost touching

~

The first encounter was a miracle.

Past ills were forgotten

as the men watched the pitcher’s

opening lid—an eye unafraid—

let everything in.