Molly Brodak
Or meet me
where you are,
says the message,
a flown form
in a just-sewn dress,
crows going wherever
overhead, sea feeling
forward, then back,
bricked-up blind—
and you in your suit,
unemblazoned
with loneliness for sure,
for the first time in forever,
for the featurelessness
of the shore, exactly white,
forsaken for
the perfect middle
of the Pacific, cold,
open, boatless: meet me.