13

Scrawny like unfed geese in the spring;
teenage mid-child girls
float through solid harbor attention
on the way to blue ocean’s mass loss
with a smile that does not support them.

White froth fills the gate,
terms are not yet drawn.
What dark there is in the waves
murmurs in anticipation.

A thrust breaks the busy mirror,
a salmon shines in the silver water.
A taste for immortality is all
anyone can ask for.

Speed is one man’s view to reckon with
in times of continuous aftermath.

Offspring in chemic confusion,
seraphs and historic delusions,
unfurl youthful uncertainties
in days with no further ado.

Must the focus we name “days”
always be caught in mid sentence
before the implied breaks?

The leaded invoice slams the gate,
there will be no further fiasco
at the end of the night.