a red sun or cave exit
flanks the silhouette form of
fermented storms in a goblet;
the bell rings out, all in harbor
there is color in the stains left
on the lip, but never in lips
themselves
dirt gripped either clumps
mean or slips through
the cracks of a fist;
the ship’s wheel is the
lock-knob to a vault of
snail’s cleaned shells, shame
on the men who left these
homes to pile
in another land,
young bucks shed velvet
in waiting rooms;
studio lights char
through the stitching, until
it is all snap-pressed
silk of sails and pantlegs


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