|I Pray you Well without my Face to Bear|
Since the night my shoulder got into a bar fight
I've been hanging my sea legs off the boat,
shooting at fish with my Glock 17.
I swear I've hit at least twelve. They float
around me like the feelings I once had for you.
Their blood is thin and dilutes easy with the salt water.
My blood remains glue-like, my veins are inflated,
ready for you to burst through the lining of the sea.
But you are miles sideways,
Praising God for things you push under rugs and
piles you keep in the garage, closing your eyes
in the morning when everyone else is waking up;
Laughing with the person who won the race.
I aimed my pistol at the sun yesterday
and had some words with your savior. I believe
he splashed me with absolution, because when
the day clocked out I could hear the hymn of the ocean,
feel it wrapping me burrito style off the Balandra shore;
And you, cornered on a ball point bed
fucked the pen harder, meaning it this time.
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