Florencia Varela
My Avalon

In the wake, a crescent gulf behind the edge—
where this city ends, I don’t know. Half-rain raps the window;

in the end, all the storm wants is the husk of inside.
Like ocean waves against shore rocks, this water moves

with the intention of touch. But on this side, everything looks
outside. We shift like the two primitive instruments, together through the glass

resisting the pitch of the arch, what the impact
would be. In the half-moon light, why not hunter & gatherer?

The night swallows more of us—me, a body but yours
& you—beacon & gorge.