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what i pick up in the ocean

a rosette it was, in the blue. and the sounds

of sea slop from the scuttle. blue,

i said. it was blue.

and your tongue was a

sheriff's , turned ninja's star. i know you

cannot eat for your frame has rusted,

weakened for love. stronger by lust. but the ship has sailed;

your backstroke was never your best stroke, i should know.

you have painted your words on my lids, i see through them onto those runes

but they escape my glued look and drift off

through that silver trellis and morph into rosettes of blue.

and the far off sounds of sea slop in the blue scuttle.

seasofme 210416parallaxis