Wander songs
are breaching lips in sighs and trills and
ba ba ba ba fuffs and piffs.
I would like
to not make eye contact
with any of the ghosts.
I am fishing
from the prow of my ship
long wrecked and the sea long gone and the sand
long standing and plentiful.
The rust in the air is tasting
a lot like a week of sex too self conscious
for tenderness. Or a lip too hard gnawed idle.
Tire smells a lot.
Fights slow ham fisted and bad footworked and
wins against odds and stinks up the locker room
with salt and thick breath.
Where are you going?
There is work to be done before close and
you slow dance like chewed gum and
a fragrance cake in a clogged urinal.
I am still fishing.
I'll let my line tow the current. It has a bell
so I can know when to open my eyes,
asleep on the hot peeled iron.
An anxious curtain affair,
the sleeping is,
before the lights come up and banish us
to tend to our plates and the catch of day.
Don't look at me.
I've nothing to share and especially to give
to a specter.
