from here
we cannot see the harbor,
where a vendor – hoarse and reeking,
sings,
and whores – gray and foreign
drift, 
gossiping of fishy things,
along the creaking gangplank.

bottles bob, barrels roll
miles of mesh lie limp and waste
windless years –
on the creaking gangplank. 

in this vast paradise – 
horizonless and edgeless –
we are bunched up 
in the middle of our dinghy.
i raise my hand above your head 
at midday.