skipping stones into sand,
her hands calloused yellow
silently broken and classified by me,
set into columns and rows and tables,
fixed into my fantasy,
Is it wrong to cling to these titles
for ourselves and others?
watch as we drift unsteady in the night fog,
offering sanity as advice,
waiting on a reservation
made by a phones disembodied voice,
rocking haphazard, stomach upside-down hazard,
under starry seas,
and cold-blue skies.