Swan – swept along.
Momentum marks the half-hid hull.
Day-drinker ponders; rises;
leaves the poem.
The dang’rous water – deep – buffets the quay.
At this spot, this world’s end –
Patter, patter, pigeon feet,
looking for some shit to eat.
I’d feed your bobbing head – alas,
there’s just no food within my grasp.