in the last days of the fishermen
I'll take you by force to the froth of the tides
there will be a new kind of light in the sky
replica seagulls calling in a narrow canyon
waiting rooms of styrofoam filled
with coffee & cream lights, the barber's chair
tilted against a melting brick wall

in the last days of the fishermen
rain will be collecting in gleaming new plastics
our little dog will cry out on a chunk
of drifting lawn, oil will spurt
from the new earth in all the places
where it has not been wounded

and a chicken will croak
from the crest of a mailbox:
you have eaten your life by hours
you have watched it blend into the faint windowshades
railing with fists in rags
on the last days of the fishermen.