night falling
clouds

dusky pink
murky gray

over the seaside
sailor’s head

this envelope
sealed

labeled vital
information

enclosed
lying on the

pavement in
front of her

house what is
it? her foot

moving it
aimlessly

like the sailor
on leave

then spinning
like the

drunken sailor
then a gust

of wind blows
it down the

street like the
drunken

sailor’s
white cap

forgotten the
next morning

like it never
existed

he steps out
into the tepid

ambivalent
evening air

the envelope
into the out-

going mail slot
collect the junk

mail ad papers
of an era

already gone
the sky dark

listless clouds
neighborhood

mute asleep
he pauses for

a numb minute
a dog’s long

whiney bark
in the house

he washes the
ink residue

from his
aging hands

a vibrant blue sky
white gulls crying

slowly awaken
naked in

an empty end-
less parking lot

walk past a gray
failed mall onto

a rarely traveled
dirt road at seaside

an old man sitting
perfectly still

in the fading
overcast sun

his wife leads me
to a boat and says

go with the current
it will take you there

the slowly roiling
water gray green

bruise-blue the
sun setting like

a bloodshot
eye closing

I sail into an
unknowable night

as the moon hides
its glowing face

he enters
timeless
charcoal

suit a hunter’s
ear
just one bullet

point
on a
sheet of

yellowed
paper
filling the

room with
a few tangled
terms

dogs
cats
rain

said with
an amiable
typeface

now in this
world we

build an
unseen

bridge
to a new

world
real

as a
numberless

clock
tangible

as a body
floating

in an
undiscovered

lake a
bridge

we build
with a

mind
quiet

as a
wordless

poem
we make

our way to
a destination

yet to
be known

yet to
be reconciled

it’s dusk as I
enter the grocery

a jug of distilled
water in my cart

in the cereal aisle
Octavio Paz is

constructing a
boat-shaped

sculpture with cereal                                        
boxes and asks

can we ever
escape this brutal

dream? the air
smells of tequila

and musty pages
of an old book

I say I’m just here
for oat milk and

corn flakes—as my
cart drifts briefly

away from me and
he rushes toward me

kisses my forehead
and leaves the store

tears streaming down
his weary face

A salmon now,
I was a man,
a large brain.

My little boat,  
ninth bottle of
beer, trying to

stand, the sun
oppressive,
blinding then

sinking like
a 40 oz can
of malt liquor.

What was I
going to do
once I stood

*****? During
the pondering
I drowned. Now

swimming
back to my
birth-stream to

lay eggs. I may
see lunch, a
worm or herring

then a hook in
my mouth,
I flop onto the

floor of a boat,
one eye looking
up as the

big knife
swiftly
comes down.