March 1, 2008
Mar 1, 2008
Ownerless—without flag. We rest
pregnant, hold full of fish, their eyes
still focused. Mere fog—man in a cap,
man in fingerless gloves—
why do I accrete more than spice
as I sit, bundled in winter wool.
Mist and motion telegraph the scent—
why do I continue to shave in the convex
bowl of a copper pot or slip on a deck
slick with blood and scales—to write
‘today he masters a pistol
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March 01, 2008