Thirteen Pounds & Ashlea
Thirteen hours farther in shedding seashell skins;
we worried for Ashlea,
in much the same way she
spends her seconds twiddling
thumbs of apposing yesteryears.
We move through the rain, careful
not to trip on our former selves
seemingly shelved, though flamboyant
as any falsehood.
She's soon to be in Georgia;
whispering songs into crooked ear lobes,
she'll grow into a luster,
the busts of she and her lover
molded from plaster pearling
in the apple-colored twilight,
thirteen hours gained,
some odd amount of identity lost.