Québec
2 October 2002 (11:59 pm) Astoria, Queens

something happens for everything lost, dozens of potential lines, chapters even, sweep past as i saunter.  i was there when the waves were harder and more distinct.  things like that tickle and it’s automatic to look for Moresmile then.  she but is watching while i the exist out, the shake of the mind panning.  i can see her forever, hers, and no mystery to be.  my forever is more mystery, a cloud to her seashine.  deep as the ifeels these are only superficial elevations of the flesh, psychic the pimple’s goose, the laughter of gulls, ears ringing for a call to splash me out of the clinch.

some nights Moresmile comes to tell me of a life don’t i know.  always as if a return, though never material.  they are visits, stolen moments from her sleeping Newsmile.  she doesn’t know she’s never me allowed to sleep complete.  sometimes she fidgets and say i,

“You have to go back to him?”

“I am with him.  You have to go back.”

“No.  Should I go.”

“I’ll never ask.”

“You’ll never stop my indulge here.  and what am I left with but-”

“It’s not tragic Sam.  I come to no tragic.  to comfort, but we’re spilling over.”

“You come to talk about-”

“No.  the testimonies Sam.  look at them lyclose.”

“I don’t have to.”

“Of course you don’t.  I can keep coming here forever.  What’s the parade and plea for though Sam?  Morning is never where the poet’s skin winter cracks.  no blood or roses.  no nonsense.”

in my dream the waterfront steps back to King Street.  we’re all going back.  the harbor is behind us, behind the safe railings of waterfront walkways, the world-collecting feet moving out to sea and back to the edge of toes forth.  tense little piggies squaw to the ocean chill through spine.  you can hear wind and bay communion; a two focused but deeper and let go.  the horizon grows lips to disrupt the hypnosis, swallows the world by taking its light.

inside the godfish.  world mine no smaller for being a bellyful of dream.  the wind still.  i still.  passengers gather me by the armpits.  the fishgod grumbles as the sun inside sets me slumped against the waves.

come together, we are submerged on dry land.  dogs walk their owners.  palms point the way wind.  everyone smells the ocean tempt to paddle out.  but yes we’re back.  we are that sound, of somehow waves rustling in the bellyfish.  godfish wants the world to want.  we don’t want.  we have everything here and the safety of scales.  old streets grow deeper into the ground.  thought and memory dive through thick stone.

it is all a fish trek trick.  augurs clown and we laugh as the scales fall away, giving us back to our old familiar horizon, our setsun, our harborsound.  the godfish flickers out of sight, ploomps below again, leaves our vision slightly more clear and slightly less ours.  we fishbreathe and return to earth through sub conduits, echo into past and freeze for memoried connects to present present.

i am only a thread and drownsmiling.

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