It was icy on the waves. Six months until June,
and the ocean held us like books on a shelf. The stress
from our lunches, taken seated on the ice—the moon
beamed like our mother—we used our napkins often. To obsess,
honestly, on manners and bibles (serpents,
arks, god only knows what else) is moot
these last days—an age we celebrate with cake,
honor like the boat cars of yesteryear—“What a beaut!”
Evil, too, these unparkable hulks, these sleek things, Garbo-
sweet in their nostalgia. It’s at the past we play,
picknicking on the frozen lake like a lost hobo
waiting for the swell, for motion and horizon. Today
cripples in the sunrise, refracting through rhinestone:
present pooling heat, melting ice like cologne
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