Fine Flu Journal Fine Flu Journal- june 2014 | Page 17

Gulls screech above me, I own nothing
but the sound of surf. My prayers beat against
lighthouse rocks. My ship circles and sinks, leaving
no wound, no bloody sore on water’s calm and healing flesh.
In the Heart of This City
In the heart of this city, a man
gnaws on a piece of lead.
No one lends him ornaments
of brass or shields him
from dust or ash. His teeth
are sharp and he has been here
a long time growing his nails
and beard. He has a tongue made
of ice, eyes vivid as violet flame.
Some call him lover, though his nose
isn’t right, while some have named
him for boulders and scree.
On the narrow streets he scrabbles
for gold. Though he owns nothing,
his feet are nimble and light,
his ladder stretches through clouds.
When you walk through the park
with hands buried in your own silent
fog, be careful to mingle your shadow
with his frozen heart. He swims
in the river, a shark who has lost its way.

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