there’s a sun tangled mid-
winter in the confines
of your eyes, spilling out

over the rocks like sick
solace or liquid
lust & trestled between

either shallow
bank as if it alone
owned the hour-

glass dripping
sand into our shoes
& under our

pretenses but
i’m in love
with silhouettes,

you get lost in
the separation cry of
down-stream currents

and there are still
shadows in this un-
plumbed ever.