The coldness of your touch
makes me think that rigor mortis must follow
and indeed,
stiffness at a touch;
the flinch, the recoil,
like from a pistol,
shots fired, and a
blank
silence hits the floor.
And so many words, so many words
rapid-fire
ejected
to change the topic
so that you won’t have to deal with the issue
that you no longer love me.
A ship arrived in the city
No one is aboard
A massive liner that could carry thousands
Not a soul to be seen
The finest luxuries afforded
No silverware even touched
A ship arrived in the city
No one knows why it was there
“Where did it come from?”
“When did it come?”
“How did it get here?”
“Who brought it here?”
“Why did it come here?”
“What will we do with it?”
Perhaps we could scuttle it, said one, use its wood as kindling
Perhaps we could make a playground out of it, said another
Perhaps as a homeless shelter?
No one thought to use it as a ship
And so the city folk took their axes
And hacked the ship apart
They pried plank from frame, steel from heart
The ship wept salty tears
For the ship crossed leagues and leagues of sea
To see a city it has heard of
Of shining ports and great big lights
Where ships could be ships
The Hexacoto 