dcfc

Gliding past still vessels,
fallen wayside.
Eyes: dried, eager.
Prying meaning from
language, awkwardly expressed,
by your limbs.
Talking to myself, I suppose.

Keys

Looking for love like
plucking aces blindly.
But maybe she’s got it.
I’d politely offer my services,
but I’m too civil and her
batting eyelashes are
sending me Morse code.
This hypothetical view
is more of singing the blues
under my breath, and I
think she hears.
At this point though
dots and dashes blur to
prefixed protocol
demanding that I not proceed.
It’s all in the code.