Afterward
Seen from the bruised sheets
the two open mouths of her shoes
(one face down and drunk
the other lopsidedly agape)
speak to him in groans and murmurs.
Her face smudges the glass
in the bathroom mirror;
she is squeezed into a jar of light.
Headlights strafe the curtains.
Her dress still clings
to the oily surface
of a hump-backed chair.
Her bright red plastic pocketbook
under its legs, dull now
in the dawn glimmer.
He hears waves crash
in an empty wine bottle.
She walks back into the room
her white slip dips into hips.
She is looking through walls
all the way to a small grave.
While she slept
her body dreamt of this
the night rowed her there
on a black tide.
Now on lights shoreline
she will not look at him.
She leaves quickly
before empty words
founder them both.
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