Blind Arcade

Molly Brodak

Or meet me

where you are,

says the message,

a flown form

in a just-sewn dress,

crows going wherever

overhead, sea feeling

forward, then back,

bricked-up blind—

and you in your suit,


with loneliness for sure,

for the first time in forever,

for the featurelessness

of the shore, exactly white,

forsaken for

the perfect middle

of the Pacific, cold,

open, boatless: meet me.