You are late autumn
cold evening rain running
home down the cracked eastern sidewalk
A pocket vibration and
the shivering answer I Will Be
soaked to the bone and my cigarette
will go out three times
Little puddle splash and the western front
is on fire
These days you are transcontinental
instead of transatlantic and I have
trouble deciphering your drunk Moroccan hand
where coffee spilled
but like you, the paper still smells of the sea.
