you want to be a visionary.
or a sailor. and it is difficult walking
the line of them both. when the view
becomes too bent. the world becomes
too straight to stand. headaches call too
frequently. when you blink and. see only cardboard,
smoke, sirens. it would be nice.
to wake up on a boat.
somewhere new. somewhere where the air
is thick with fish.
though you hate fish. an unpronounceable town
can get greet you at the harbour. no handshakes,
warm embraces. sloppy kisses.
chests pressed together on reunions.
withered hands on your bare shoulders.
fruit pips in the sand. cool shadows in the
belly of palm trees. bowls with squiggles on.
forks blunt to the bone. no salt on
the table. but, a tiny cat in the street.
a yappy dog in the kitchen. a gigantic pan
that could. make a meal of you. no measuring jugs with
red numbers needed here. scoops from packets.
dishing, sifting, spreading herbs. minerals.
at the market, there is rainbows and humanness
spread out on stalls.
you are drawn to peachy ear lobes. piercing eyes that
attack harsh frowns. hair wraps. ice cubes.
dropped with a conk. by fingers the shade of holidays.
smiles from strangers that nuzzle. all that you once were.