I suffer our togetherness
like spinning thread in the middle
of glacial migrations,
our lips, stitched in ice.

I held on to warmer days
not a minute longer than
a kiss. When we sailed away,

aboard the Oasis of Sirens
all the way from Hong Kong
to Cape Charles, Virginia,

saw rock-shapes protruding
from isles, like ancient gods
damning sea-shards in scorn
for their states of undress.

We will never be more than
quiet cysts in this ocean,
like unformed, would-be echoes
contouring the silence.

— A. P.


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