VIII Matinée

At dawn, when the sun flowed uphill and the trawlers set off like spiders to cast their webs, the seagull's wings creaked. In its beak a blue ceramic fish looked bewildered.

In my lover's eyes, yesterday sits like a broken chair. Trees lose their leaves when she looks at them.

I am a carpenter faced with a constructive dilemma. My hands know timber. My hunger grows rings while I wait.

The truth table trembles on its binary legs.

As she chews on the apple in my throat I think of the one that got away.