Caution: I am ruffled into a dress. Floating on preteen primetime. Obliging separatists. Wrote a letter with a craving for power. Listen to me if you please: my earnestness is a flaw, the flat underside of a boat on land. On the rear by the engine carried the silver blade of Saint Someone, a medallion on the key ring, a plastic pouch for a can of beer. I jump out (but the foot hasps the dock), I’m no longer comfortable, I don’t catch a fish without biting my tongue. I grease and idle my body that stares decadently at the sandy bottom. I never look back so I don’t have to answer if I am being called: my hands and mouth are salty.