this is to the woman i knew, who,
despite that hair was always in her face,
she never hurt anyone. not her whole life.
i know what love is. find that shell you can't
leave at the beach, imperfections carved like
singing angels to the surface of its soul.
she wondered: a mid-western man lost
at my front door, trying to hide his charm
under an alcoholic smile and too many
filth caked days in brooklyn.
his touch gave him away,
the undercurrent of lake michigan
mixing with the delicate oils of her insides.
