Yearning for the sea-

something about a white boarded pod

and down the road a smokehouse

that wraps the fish in silence, dog.

If I were asked I might say it was hot

white horses, some crashing. A trip out

each day to the sweet shop to see Graveling

with the big old ears like bacon, how

do we get there. TV in the evenings and a

simple meal of Gothel, coke float.

High-stitched, I don’t much care.

It was your voice on the line, you unmet me.

Prying open my day like a mouth, you

muddied my pearl. I am not interested

in you and your lack of poetry,

don’t care for your aggregate view-

trying to squeeze your body into the hours

like a fat old foot, rushing for trains, moral

mathematics then skating on the surface

like some finely shanked bug.

I am not interested in hurting or filling your

silences with reupped words- I research

the most awful things. The sun opens a

cloud like a curious knife, the grass is

a various city, I don’t have time, I’m

aiming for the shore. The crunk of shingle

and the roseate cubes that shrink you,

targeted toward the gaggle of girls that

carve up sand and play in ribbons,

unwatched, there’s no display.

The games of the ardent bore me.

While on the tide we flutter- roaming

in wellies, in ourselves, out. Lost

to the deep we strain to conch

the loud black aches of a mermaid.