Poetry

Not plumes. Not plumes

from the teapot’s throat.
    But force, unseen, the space

So what if he was old enough to slough her off?
The night of her news he made an exception—

Sleep, shelter me.
Shuffle

me back into the deck
where I belong—

There is a Florida beyond the stars.
It is the same state I find waking here,
alone with my aloneness in the dark,
all things now possible because my own.