Windbite

across a hundred memories that
you are not any part of,
always your tea stains are
on cloths in backgrounds of
sparsely customered diners where
you sat and drank with other
sailors or saxophone players like

your ex, who once wrote a song
about how your face, even after
windbite, looked like stars reflected
in ecstatic ponds in warm winter

but you trod a path uncrossing
mine here on the coast of the
pedantic ocean wherein lessons
are sung by tenured gulls who
know our shared sorrow

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