The king goes under

for the third time,
the birds are not of this world.
Every ship that

ever set sail

or steered

beyond the known,
making landfall

on a beach

of bones.
~
Passing beneath your window,

tongue in my throat,
the wind filled my ears with

your name, like a curse.
Years earlier, in the glade, we spoke

of gold and wasted hours

(beneath the wasted stars

among the wasted flowers).
You kissed me once and
       there is blood

                but not a lot
       there is pain

                but not a lot
       there are cries

                but not many.
At the top of the hill,

sometimes,

the ground flattens itself.
Cows dying on these pleasant journeys;
The King silent in the deadly waters,

leaving things behind to eat,

like floating fish, blood pink in their blue

water, thin, dying on a shore of bones.
There is a good place to sit near here.
We sit lined in dim light

our hearts failing.
Your name in my ears, your

bones lining my ocean