I don’t need to row an ocean or round a mark. I don’t control the jib sheet. It’s raining. I pull on nothing.
I am spent like from a lover who wants to know me from the backside of my navel. He knows I have secrets and glides in till they fall from my eyes.
My skin smells like cookies. I haven’t been turned over in too, too long.
I smell blood in the shower like the abandoned steel mills my blind hands haven’t explored.
Lately the sun is a Monet painting. This is not Paris.
Cleveland is draining. It won’t rain forever. Tomorrow I’ll be ravenous.