If I were a fish this reduced metabolism
would be in response to some danger —
a panicked hibernation, a lessening of vibrations.
That’s it then, but not. No, there is no real safe space
no silencing vibrations even in death no that
that is an absence of ears that hear
that is an absence of understanding
which is, as one more dead fish washed up,
as sunset explains the decay of architecture,
the sour under note to the breeze.
Category Archives: summer
these nights
these nights are brutal honest. here
the river currents lap off all artiface
silence envelopes all noise culture
and what’s left? those bones dancing
along the wharf laughing telling
stories unbrittle polished by shadows.
untitled series 4 (Summer 2022), number 7
And here we linger battling the spleen and feet.
There are lessons in the lonely hours between moonset and morning,
a consistency in the tugs pushing barge loads up and down river.
It’s generally quiet here. That’s what I told
the homeless woman rocking herself on a wharf bench. I’m interactive she called out
imagining I’d ignore her. Did she know
I noticed her pissing behind a bush an hour earlier?
These details don’t matter. These unscheduled details don’t matter
this is where life is here swimming in wet thick air
instinct taking over like the fish we are
dodging West Nile mosquitoes and post-colonial depression.