Your words raise the sun’s bright
barkentine
A sea is quartered in the cove of your
throat
The sun brings you ten bottles of
home-brewed
Water spouts and here’s his drowned
intellect all
A-swarm in drunk gulls O it’s very
infantile how
The sun shipwrecks once again on the
smooth
Shore of your chin but wait! there you
stand
On the poop deck waving a bouquet of
balisiers
Full-tilting a song about a whale named
La Baleine
You’re belting out a ballad about an alcoholic
Whale in Hackensack who works at walmart and
Misses Trinidad not a home not the island nation
But a predictably dead lover now
the sun sings
With you too without caring what
people will say
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