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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