Reigning In The Rain

Hugo fishes-
in a boat filled to the brim with salt.

there is a line,
far quieter than the equator
that segue into numbers, dust, geometry.

there is no preposition,
to measure the gift, the line, the vine

Hugo fishes-
and sometimes,
ankles deep in salt
he sees a man with no mouth,
no ears, no eyes, no nose,
and no hook

The Road

he is steady
eyebrows stitched in knots,
the lightning, the buzz, the barley.

the rust on pier 17,
iron gates leading,
Cormac McCarthy speaks from paperback print
bouncing in a satchel.

Misinterpretations

saying his name,
is memorizing cursive, suffixes peeking through
it leers, smelling like summer caught in mauve hues,
yesterday, the draft drew him in
from mistaking the fog with the stream

at night,
the sailors, on the opposite shore
cannot drink all that he has swallowed,
just roam.