Sand-Eyed Concession



She swears she is your
safety net, touchstone fingered
cool and wet. So be it.
I fumble with a lobster clasp,

sleepy oyster under gritty axe

and twitch for

giveness. You withhold.

My last confession

attests that we slipped

masks in a replicant tank,
and that our dialects

flooded a matchstick bridge.

Nonetheless, I am inconveniently

loving you even without a heart

and head—dispossessed of reason.