Papers blowing by. The sailor cries,
No ships today, be wary of the storm.
He is mad, of course, drunk on salt-spray,
The upwind corpse of a fallen god,
Heedless of constellations.

Seagulls steer a penny�s worth of cloud,
Eyes of copper bend down the canyon.
He listens to the noisy tide of lips,
The song of commerce weighing anchor.

Scented candles. Wooden spoons.
Awnings, leaves, and gutters.
Unshy girls in soft-steamed windows,
Elbows to toes, stirring dreams in coffee,
A capricious blend of predictable order,
Gray stones smudged with dates and names,
Here lies everyone but you and me.

Clandestine aims and soft-shoe stutter.
Voices like tarnished windchimes.
As they polish their chains,
I fade to dust, await a child�s footprint.

January 4, 2006

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