through life

on the drives home
you like the back seat
your feet up on the window
like that dylan album art.
once in a while
the wind through the open
window will lift one
or two of your hairs onto my neck
and hold there a while.

my brother reid compares women
to bottles of wine.
i prefer to call them shotguns.

but really i think they are
those brass rings on a rowboat
that hold the oars steady
as they beat their way through life.
they are the little white swells
that explode in the black water
every time.

on july 23rd
a year ago yesterday
your hair was brown
your teeth were clean and
your cheekbones were violent
and that was all you were to me.

and now look.