by Michael Amitin
Marooned on the couch brown raft rocking l’Île de Paris
Sullen blackbeard blackboard jazz blowing
from across the navy New Orleans seas,
Slo-mo angels doing slo-mo somersaults on my torn red curtain
in these broken domestic Halloween bones and mask,
I rummage through the ashes that crashed me
into this pink-new golden dawn.
Lost love is something we can never afford,
head stuck on the starboard mast
crashing through storm waves painted in dead dreams
And feeling that familiar regret again
that we never consummated
the close quarters then.
What are regrets other than dead seagulls
floating in a ghost-soup sea.
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