is a misnomer, a bedraggled
canoe dragged from shore
or
a defunct hotel
where ghosts mimic guests,
anaemic, thin as flute
glasses. chandeliers threaten
to loosen; crystal garters
topple but it is
the swan song
in the slaughterhouse
that apricots your ears and roses your lips
white flushed with a perfect
floral blemish.
I set sail, past tense, on the wing-span
of a continent, and I repeat the same act
day in, night out:
look back, execute, look back, sit tight
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