Not Another Love Poem

In a surreal landscape,

The sky leaps – scraping its backbone against our goodbye.

Soft white striations mar the canvas,

The evening is as red-as-burnt-flesh,

Far and high,

A deep amethyst.


The sand is not my only impediment,

And when we rest,

Our bodies deliberate driftwood,

The white dog blurs, chasing

his own momentum, and I want

to trace your palms slowly, tasting

the scars.


R. Leigh Krafft