this trajectory of refuse 
Laurel DeCou

     

il fait chaud like some like it and the water still reeks of fish
               to walk this circle (and it was not somnambulation) takes over an hour

when the curbside tastes of oil and we fashion crudeness
               slowness or silence does not always mean arrêté ou renversé or puddling

one legged stillness becomes sleep a pause and dreamless
               in the name of someone else call them appeler white feathered and distant

                                             the water lines sink in revelation
                                                            pewter paper verre verre
                                             the stuttering stench of laziness
                                                            slipping in requires terms
                                             feeding on dark brackish casings
                                                            aveugle brillant ruptures

               sounds they make on the rusted layers on the high rises on the dolphin-less piers
                              superstition the heaviness weighing les crudités the ones never planted

               salé mouiller the rocks barely covering what will not be never was grains of sand
                              prints of shoe or toes beside each other as voisins as besoin touché

               assemblage does not become artifact necessity demands maintenance maintenant
                              collars banded the identification of danger as marks to be chosen

                                                                           quand les yeux ferment
                                                                                          il y a personne
                                                                           the saltiness belies the
                                                                                          and in moving

//   Advance   //