Something    comes out of nothing

across the water

on days when I am

clear

about sound, touch, a sharpness of taste as

external.
I mount the ferry, dramamine—s cradle —

passage paid this side

of the river.

Arrival is

rope cast and pulled, green light skin, sun

fal-

            ling

sixty seconds behind Tuarts.
Slopes crowd:

rumour, myth, the dead —

evidential occasions of

intoxication, olives,

the Mediterranean (architecture),

water catchment, purification, lenses and

fishing —

at least there is fishing.
I am

familiar with

the physics of hook and lure,

dynamics of reel,

knife and gut,

descaling, the need to extract

every bone —

mortality axis at this

point.
Clearly

a salt signature is external,

the voice of sea, tide and sand;

clearly internal

the sound of

a key dropped outside

a cell, the door

closing.