by Joe Pickard
Your body slipping between waves
reminds me of absence between years
and how it dips with force pushing,
pulling back and forth
in ways I can’t understand
only for love to turn up
like driftwood
on the high tide.
About the author:
Joe Pickard works as an editor for a magazine based in London. He has had writing published in Confluence, Eye Flash Poetry, Soft Cartel, and elsewhere. He is the founding editor of Pulp Poets Press, which is always looking for submissions.