I am tired of time changing

countenance behind the pruinose 

of lapsed lovers, their names 

finger oil negatives 

on shower glass. Rain has washed 

the topsoil – what a feeling 

to be barren! the accident of texture 

all that’s left, no vegetation, only tears 

built on tears like moss sprayed still. 

Waiting for the boat feels eternal, 

but I wait. I’m no supplicant, 

I only ask of God to bullseye 

his switchblade. Under the acacia tree, 

life is a count of last digestions, 

hopefully undisturbed like an egg 

harboring secrets of a yolk 

that never exits the shell - all this gnosis, 

what a waste! The future is now fixed 

in place. Not to be perturbed by wind 

or sails, I light the lantern with a cigarette 

and exhale, breathing myself out to wait

for the foghorn to blast its last sevens.