Samoa Field

I no longer confuse you
with my love. I understand

all proximity’s approximation;
this thing we have

doesn’t have it in the bag.
I pour the contents into the bath.

I no longer confuse one
leaving for another

except at night, when I might
open the faulty ziploc.

The water heats slowly, cools slowly,
depending on the landlord. I hate

never losing my voice
at that point of the evening, when

I don’t have a bottle to hold.
I’d break a neck

against any edge, all roughage worth
some possible elixir.

I started the day
in a stranger’s ear, asking

for assistance; found the middle way
in a friend’s departure; closed it

hoping to smell Arcata, while that flight
receded. The eucalyptus

dried out months ago, but the salt
still had its way.

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