"Fragment 141"
O ye altogether wretched false
wickies, drunk on salt and oil
filth after clearing the forest
like shingles peeled off a new
name, dancing as a two-bit Willem
Dafoe to cobble a semblance of
meaning. There is no semblance
of meaning. There is no sign-post
lighthouse to carry you away,
only the vengeance of gulls
and your imminent departure into
seafoam. You shouldn’t have
done that. You should have
complimented the meal. You
should have minded your siren
duties, withheld hands from beans.
Amy Marvin
is bundled up and sitting in a cold hallway. She is both looking forward to and dreading warmer days.
Twitter: @amyrmarv