Name called.
Not mine.

Wasn’t I
here first?

I leave everything on shingle,
meet surf like a sibling,
crest over playful breakers
and chase the moon’s tail.

We launched, lovingly
into dark and silky water
unknown yet benign.

You did not ask for knees —
They found the floor themselves.
Not from command,
But gravity.

That winter the snow kept rising,
a slow white wall climbing the windows,
each morning untouched,

I’ve been reading about ghost apples.
They are a real phenomenon, like how
everyone we can see on the wide street
outside this building is still living,

I tried to work from a van. Sitting in the passenger
seat listening to a guy whistle. His frown, a cloud
he lost when his mother died. Each wrinkle

Those full udders will slowly burst
spitting milk onto the grass strands.

at the cider farm, eight minutes
before handover, we strike on
feeding the donkeys –