A love letter from a killer to the world.

Light coming in the color of ocean, through

the window, through the crossed panes,

onto the tile floor scattered with

shapeless mounds of cloth. The two

beds, low and narrow, one empty.


The silence. Not a bird or insect.

The distant rocking of boats

at the marina. A sense of desiccated,

exhausted peace over the house. An interlude

of rest before drama and trouble

resume with the waking hours.


Insane drunkenness. Leering and collapsing

on the sparse, dry lawn. Staggering inside,

the dreaded onset of sobriety and

a return to those depressed senses

being escaped. That entire wooden sensibility.

Hoping only to ride out the next few days,

never taking stock of what

alternate lives have been lost.


I am stuffed with visions of your body,

contorted, grappling, hot with sweat

and tucked in the loose forms of love.

Our perversity at the seashore

was a monstrous business.


The grass, the towels, the lion’s

appetite, the vulgar tapping

of incoming tides nuzzling the rocks.

Drowning like a shell,

spinning whitely down until the sand shuffles

up and buries it. This is my line.

And so.


One response to “A love letter from a killer to the world.

  1. the title is great. i like your subtle innuendo with the ocean and the acts performed.

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