Above in the salted courtyard
or down by the anchor
where anger pleases me,
docks go out to the clouds
in a soft flowing memory,
some walkway of what
I can never understand,
and I am gone
walking
without the feet
I never got to know.

Seats in an orange leather octagon
around me, one wide window
stars hitting like moths
a different sky.

Fired through the dark material
shoulders brushed by a fiery antler,
face beaming on the surface of the sun
a link that comes to greet my tail
a field of stones purring and chalking.