it’s just the wharf possum, me, and that pop-eyed moon.

one must wear a shroud and act like a river ghost. this is no place to flaunt alleged humanness.

this world engine runs slow and lean in the early morning hours. the world beneath the river reflects forth.

do not answer if one asks for coffee or candied ginger. the first robin sang at five til four.

not long after the moon disappeared a man in a sweaty white t-shirt stalked quickly up the wharf, the stains shaped like lunar craters.