Three Poems

      'Stereotypical moon, you swing
      a low first quarter up
      above the house, you are
      a thumbnail cutting. Let
      inebriate dockers, round the flat canal
      find their folktale cheese'

As if they always were,
those squared-off barges launched on static seas
a world beyond this frame. You watch
the clasped-in dreamers entering their scenes,
and all their wrangled limbs in packet beds
are glanced across by you,
their burdens and their breathing spin these tales
from where their islands lie.
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