and one day you’re twenty
some things cease to align
with your teen-aged baby blue
prints of the tequila-hot veins
beneath your dermis – – an eye
you’ve got for goodbyes on
the pier and they’ll find
you here, mouth agape
and serving as a target
so the pigeon head seagulls
can, with purpose, shit
and get this, on that one
day, which is really many
a riptide may very well
bury you atop skipping
stones, sunken, forgotten
forgone would have been
the pocketbook, of course
the handkerchief, better yet
the polls and the talons, oh
and yes, they’ll shove wood
and iron and steps to follow
but you won’t seem to be able
to construct a house as hollow
POETRY FESTIVAL. Submit to site for FREE. Submit for actor performance. Submit poem to be made into film. 