The old ship left, creaking into the chop & good-
bye to you. Another month with empty arms &
the racket of other people’s luck, tiny little eyelids,
the slight smell of burning from a fontanelle.

Off you go. I am waiting for ze blood to come, it is
baptism, a renewal of hope. They say relax it’ll be
your big opening soon, I say forget it. Ego’s overrated,
the whole point is to give & it seems I cannot do that.

Sandy tears for the tiny speck of morse-flecked
light that circles my Shangri-la, wanting a go. It is
missing me, wants a gro of skin to slip into,
for me to give it a bit of a stroke- old Niblet.

Honestly, perhaps I am not destined to love that hard-
it is hard. More to give the oak-eyed olds a break
& call those quickstep children as my own . Ok then!
We are all one after all. A writhing mass of golden fleece.

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