Objective

I hear you crying in bed.
morning soon
will rub the window
and spread out the ragged stains.
then your salt-crumbed face
will be embarrassing to see—I’ll put on the kettle
to clear the air,
and read in the kitchen
until the water is cool.

Expatriate

last night in a salty purl of fog

I stood by the café by the bank

and smelled

the magnolias

by the reservoir.

a pimple of water

stood on the table

to recall the demitasse.

those hours passed

and the fog sucked slowly

down the blue bank.

the river fell out to the sea,

and a puddle in the fog

held the prints of my shoes

until morning.