we wound in stars on old fishing rods;
reeling on promises from days where
the light still brought species, clutter,
schematic belief. you caught three. i
caught nothing, but glimmers of hope.
allusions and reality are often cleft,
though. this truth i'd rather cast,
like myself, over cliff-face. but, i
alone am
mutable in this scheme. you named
yours as blank-faced children, born
to the sea.
predictably, i named mine woe.
fate moves through seasons, sovereign
groups, ways set down to dot. the
object stands;
here lies truth. this is the truth:
pebbles form kiltered circles
under the dock. floating
above the architecture of my
ribs consuming churned
air, i watch me fade. i
discern and too, dilapidate.
you raised yours with colour
in iris. i picked mine up
lovingly-
this woe is
awake and tightly circling.
this isn't even about anyone. i think.