The Pock-marked Ocean with its Flotsom Hat.

The Season
has set in
and, until I can afford new used books,
I'm rereading Hemingway.
which might sound like a metaphor,
but, well, maybe it is.

as the fish begin to
re-position their hairforks
and buy new flats
for the day they will arrive,
The work begins.

already we can fall asleep while working,
and already we find ourselves saying
'no cream for the coffee'
with the same larynx inflection
as might be used to say
'no rest for the weary.'

but there's more to life than staying out in the rain
and whatever we intend to start starts now.

This life, with a crew share at the end of the summer,
and dumpster diving until then
makes even a spoonful of peanut butter feel
like a wood burning stove,
and, as I pour existence-raisins over my
bowl of cereal,
Pound leans over to remind me
to live for life itself
until time breaks down

all things save beauty.

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