Claire DeVoogd

Is the daughter of a sailor we
Are kissing in the park
In secret on top of a low wall
Sharing biomes like dogs
Leaning back and forth
Between the colonies while
A glossy car circles
The path watching us.
He would like to go home
And give his daughter this vial
Of blood. These red beads.
I hail a man holding a metal
Rod and he looks at his feet
What is so wrong with being
A dog’s breakfast
(Asking for somebody else.)
There is a hill here
Growing greener turf over
The discarded bones
Of a few decades of proto-
Industrial fishing that were
Going on while Marie
Was writing this and then ended
Without violence, without
Turning into something
Worse. Occasionally a collar
Is unearthed. I don’t understand
What it means, no one does.
A few people have ideas.
Marie asks when will it rise
And go back to its god.