I have a book for putting in.
Edged with fish and a sailboat,
the latter drawn by my own hand.
And in the book,
(bought from a man whose face i remembered for a spell at 15),
the folds, for me to tell it,
I cannot keep a word.
My pen will bleed and art begins.
The coffee will spill,
and flush lyrical continents into sepia seas.
And the line marinades and the stria stews.
The prominent people tell me to wail.
Still, my smile is the morning sun over a new ocean.
