Wayward

Fingers melt into the mattress,
the one who have you up
for a mountainside or whim…

Sheeted, I spray sea salt
on my hair hoping the ghosts
grow mouths, tell me where

the anchors root from my mind–
dilute crossed wires. It’s not a relapse,
just a revival of the shadow

squeezing lungs, tangles of
the promises keeping toes planted
in sand, begging for high tide’s pull.

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