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.