by William Bain

All morning with subliminality trying to
bring you back.

I live on an island called Barceloneta,
circumvallated on two “sides” by sea.

What in the world do you think I can do about it
if a single white boat, sail down and tied,

glides across the water off Barcelona beach past
the red-and-white dump truck with its bed raised,

past the yellow claw tractor resting its
teeth on the newly dumped rock,

and just keeps moving the way motored
craft move toward port at five o’clock

in the afternoon when you are somewhere
else, maybe even in Madrid?

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