Suspension Feeding

When she disappears
into the atmosphere, will you 

remember the shape her mouth was in
when she last said 

your name, when she stepped back
from that kiss? A poet skirts 

in and around surfaces
seeking a place to attach herself to. 

It’s a barnacle
life—she’s always preferred the underside
of piers.

No Rote

Entangled in a net of no one
to blame’s making, I forget
what I said yesterday 

about this pier and its hurricane
scars. About to begin
another plunge into dense 

of choppy water. About to listen
for those dirges we prepared, buried 

in this sand before I began 

to follow musicians around with this
spill—I don’t forget theirs,
they come ashore with ease.