Deep in summer the sun was sweet as juice 

and dripped off your chin. I’m manic now, fueled 

by memories of warmth and lush grass stains 

we wore on our shirts after reading Wilde 

in the park by the river. It’s winter; 

I haven’t seen a bead of light unspoiled 

by a cord or switch in too many days,

I can’t recall when last we spoke. The night 

devours the day. I feed on crumbs of hope; 

they would have gone mouldy in the pantry 

anyways. The sun is cloaked in layers 

of undyed wool. He used to bathe naked 

like Bathsheba and we couldn’t resist 

those kisses in the dappled light of oak 

leaves thinning but who could notice tall trees 

going bald with your arms wrapped around me? 

Dinner is tuna, the cat and I rip 

open the pouch and eat off the chipped plate.

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Sammy Bellin lives in Lewisburg, PA. His poetry appears in Rust & Moth, wildscape.literary journal, January House Literary Journal, and Delicate Emissions, and is forthcoming in La Rotonde Review. In his free time, he enjoys hanging out with cats and wandering in the cold. You can find him on instagram @sammyabellin