Cover myself in blankets

of dust. Cover myself


in a second-hand poncho

Virginia Woolf could have worn


with her pockets turned inside out,

the light tongues of fabric licking


at the salted California sun.

It can take some time


and she keeps saying

she was drawn to me.


There is an attic of time

which I hide in, time


where we walk blank beaches

that never get cold,


visit bright houses which cast no shadows

onto pink shores. We pause on the coast,


her hands freckle and brown

and her hair lightens a little.


People say to her – You

look good. And I say –


The chairs were flying.

They aimed for my head.


And I say, I was drawn to you

by the chairs and she understands


and never calls the weather mundane

or melodramatic. And the ocean stays


in front and below:

unknown and living with us.


First published in The Golden Hour Book Vol. II (2009) and collected in Tomorrow, We Will Live Here, 2010.