Docking (Each Morning)
Sixty-eight degrees I knee-
deep in a sea: open,
advanced options. Open,
the water below. Sleepy head, heavy
head, how will I hold
up to you. Close, advancing
options I hope I
remember my semaphore oh
no I don’t have one, what
the hell is that? That is
the ice-cracking wind (they’ll
say), else
the other-side sun. She changes
every time.
