row by Robert Krantz

I hate the way the moon pulls you like an ocean towards herself the way she bends you into tropical depressions— there are fugues played on flutes on beaches and bonfires that burn scribbled notes I couldn’t send you I hear their crackling ashes snap see them rise like fireflies then extinguish … some nights come full circle like the rim of a drum beating a cadence that keeps my enslaved shoulders pulling away from safe shores and faint fires now burning on your foreign sands

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