This Whole Port City is a Boat…

… and the moon is looking
for stowaways. I hear
the white noise of water
the roaring of men’s stomachs
and blood that are lost to our ears
until found again, somewhere new
a captain listens to land
after months on the sea
the taverns creak on top
the gulls divide up
merchant ships and a careful
propeller of lighthouse light
swings, gaining speed. If light
were to leave our Earth somehow
it would do so like this; in a
slingshot before separating
at the sharp edge of space
my fingers have also separated
in the hair of pretty girls
at the edge they dissipate
it is all I can do to remember
their faces – two eyes, a nose
a mouth. I have forgotten
their sounds. I have nearly forgotten
the wine I stole and slipped
into my jacket sleeve. I walk
along the vessels, gargling
unable to christen them all
I find it familiar that boats
are made for water, but
built on top of the land

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