(a sonnet)

it all just shuffles just shrugs away
near the eve of the equinox
the sky is already painted in autumn
there is no point in dodging the moon,
old tired-eyed daemon (yes one must believe
one must believe in gatormen too
and firetrolls and mermaids
else the world is too flat-faced)

floating in near darkness unmoored
and hoping the lines will hold
knowing only temporary ones do
under reflections by vulgar man-made lights
the river writhes oily: a snake
learning its new skin