with good guns
and ****** marys
in a slow-spinning vestibule
with chairs made of wicker
and wood,
and accidental great whites
smiling from the ceiling.
music slips in from her viola.
we wish we were in a class
of language
by Fridays and last night's
setting fire to station wagons,
knowing not how to prevail.
from our seperate young boats,
one last sip,
we watch the sunrise
and we let life be the same,
equal distance between our names.
the afternoon ends with abnormal thunder
walking overhead like dead neighbors.
on the ground we walk their way, too.
so this is Rhode Island?
then music slips in.