From the Fishouse

What follows her is a fist
of cold air. You craved

the ocean & she proved
its most approximate proxy.

In the morning, you dream
of crests and configure

tides: a.m. let roll back
p.m. roll in sand. Let

the moon be exhausted –
let it contribute overtime.

Tell it to put a call in
to Saturn or Jupiter’s entourage

to form union. You’ve got
your hands full – one

girl, one cosmos, and chill
enough to rodeo the sun.