Vagabond
Tea spills on the empty bed,
like Dracula’s cape or a devil ray
wafting over coral waves.
Now it’s a map of Australia,
the birthmark you flex
on the curve of your arm.
I carefully trace the coasts
with my finger–the continent grows
on the sea of your absence.
My boat is unmoored,
adrift; yawning unsteadily
far away from your shores.