tell me the letters that
will open the lock. it rests there
in the junk drawer, locking nothing,
dirty with age like me, faded colors from a
brighter time still glowing, muted like
Miles Davis, charmed craftsmen now
swallowing their laurels in retirement,
taking breaks for scuba
beneath the island fish’s belly.
fat from the chum
of our tall ships, it exerts its fins and we are gone.
the planet
looks up from writing in its notebook and wonders, what is
the shape of these last years?
how hot the fire
how dark the dark
take
a
break.
go backwards,
like your lungs reversing,
filling up for that great dive.
the benthic trench yawns like
the open lock, bottom feeders persisting like a remembered password.
here’s a kill shelter for nature’s strays, the crabs and rays
too ugly even to move in straight lines.
down here even people’s secrets can relax. what’s the point
in jumping around like a demon cat, when all of our islands
are spying with telescopes, clapping to kill fruit flies,
and counting the bricks in their neighbors’ houses with jealous eyes?