Tethered pistons yelling grief and gilded tattered fungus chips
to the
elementary linkage, smartly aligned and chopped through the useless night.
These are the loftier goals of our people, healthy and vigorous ones,
and yet,
the tumbling hasn’t left our eyelids, if we’re lucky we’ll catch a cold.
Outwards and progressing, starboard forward and sandpipers running
to the
softer climes, where skinny legs won’t be lapped with briny foam.
Timid clicks, the endless game without objective never loses its thrill
for the
loveliest, simplest, most fragile spirits, visiting us just for the sunset.
WHARVED 