there are footprints in the sand

by blake ellington larson

near the

roses you
planted a year or so after
your tenure was
severed by
your trigger finger

and the wind chimes stay
still chilled against

blurred leaves – busy noise

and the rain washes
the mulch from the mulch

‘it is midnight somewhere’
you used to say

i draw the blinds

i shut the door shut tight

i smell cigarettes

burnt wine