Cover myself in blankets
of dust. Cover myself

in a second-hand poncho
Virginia Woolf could have worn

with her pockets turned inside out,
the light tongues of fabric licking

at the salted California sun.
It can take some time

and she keeps saying
she was drawn to me.

There is an attic of time
which I hide in, time

where we walk blank beaches
that never get cold,

visit bright houses which cast no shadows
onto pink shores. We pause on the coast,

her hands freckle and brown
and her hair lightens a little.

People say to her - You
look good. And I say -

The chairs were flying.
They aimed for my head.

And I say, I was drawn to you
by the chairs and she understands

and never calls the weather mundane
or melodramatic. And the ocean stays

in front and below:
unknown and living with us.