Shore

It suffers an expression--

Dangling water, pining for the table covers
hysteric calligraphy, font dressed in liberation
smelling so absolute as dancing in a dream,
and personal and courageous and sunken as cherry nailpolish that bleeds left to the right
on the skin--
as we're moving towards distance, in your plastered, fading van
that serves some new Art, but not me.
Gulping down Brahms through swirling ears, we're lost
like you said, hoping for nothing but no wish to camouflage.
While these rocks, these mountains,
Trees with no Roots
spin down the well to something untrue
We're bad at the knowing, just every man's nothing
What can that say about us?

Every skipping thought births a little, humming boat
always invited, but somehow called
to the shore.