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.