You still haunt my longing;
the lantern never was yet
burned louder some years
than others– certain days,

you were a faraway dream–
facing the tide, your black
hair and literature. The Pacific,
the Atlantic, the frozen

December we met again,
you said you were unstable–
ice drove us down dark streets,
engine idle in the middle of a lot.

It takes knowing how your face moves,
intimate and drunk in negative light,
our immovable stone eroding
in the wind of time.

(originally published in Clackamas, Spring 2019)