She keeps Earl grey

in her underwear.

She says, “I would like to keep Basil there,”

with uncertainty she says it.


The salt in your hair,

the salt in your bones,

brings me rain,

and salted, the slate wets.


You touch my arm,

tomato leafs in my hand,

I smell their briny dense bouquet.


A white dog licking the salt

in notes off one beautiful thin leg.

Her chest is sunburned apple,

her nose and her brother too.


I liked it when you said you couldn’t listen,

like memory it needs to be burned in.

Here’s where I should have started talking,

I’m guessing an utter would have done.


Such pathetic broken river rocks,

all in the shape of hearts, and hurt lingers

in the forgetful birds,

while under the pear tree

bees dizzy around the ripening

and she’s so lovesick

in her panties.


Rob Jones

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