At odds I saw her in sunk tide, her crow’s
kiss, her arched ankle. She wore a crookback’s
slicker her breasts were unbound like Garbo’s.
These are a hollow child’s love poems, wax
from my ocher candle, dusty light. “Child,
whose love are you?” she asked. But, of course, love
between worlds doesn’t work like that. Exiled
spirits forget. She sang in an octave
only the ashen hearts of first love gone
sour can hear. But I love that ash. The thrill
that ache brings. Her arms were smoke, her kissing
was like water-glow. O blue amazon,
first love. We stood on the beach in the chill,
burning hearts burned, my spectral love laughing.