To you, who are ode,
All too quick to make
and never true.

Stretched arms, sheets
pinned, the boom comes
racing, meets the turn
and curses wind.

Epithet oh epigram oh
Record of texts that run
apart under watermark
and licked, stuck fast.

Beautiful, cold charm,
metal and jumpy as fish.
It wasn’t much around
my neck. I took more off

For you, who are owed,
less than market fare,
Rose oil on burnt hair,
Empty palm waiting
for fortune’s company.

I am ambitious too! But
You already knew
what I would drown
with rope for takeout
and a bottle shared
on mildewed cushions.

Summer is over, too quick
to make and never true.
You send nothing, still,
Raise red flag sail
above the metal box.
The mailman never stops.

Last night, young boys
swung bats, brought
down the hollow vessel.