Jack Boettcher

My lady slips into the old equipment

and in this musty rigging climbs the night

because wherever I exist it is night

and she’s always grappling w/ such structures

above me; to quaff cool air in summer

as pirates and explorers

quaffed small limes in summer

she would climb any rung of rails lit

or unlit by cosmos, there is no evil quadrant

of the cosmos, and I have evolved

from the long, stewing succession-

pools of bard-material

to write a romance in a shipyard

adrift with paramilitaries

or 200 miles inland from a sea;

where her yellow dress attracts like

static to the slash pines, and both the night

and her dress still floating/hinging

tear a little scandalously.