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--- R O N A L D   P A L M E R

Hope hovers:  a ten mile sanguine rectangle:
hand-smeared with rag-smudged edges:  we find a rock
for two:  look up at the blue shark:  wide as a football field 
or a continent:  gaseous body extending in reverse:  
inert as a real shark:  patient for prey:  waiting in the black
ocean of the sky:  even if it could see us:  we'd blend 
into east coast:  two sparking lesions within cerebral skin:
waiting here holding hands:  on this counterfeit skeleton 
of a T-rex:  tall spine levitates our backs 
ten feet from the creeping tide:  none of us come singing 
from the womb:  we find everything:  including a screen:  a canvas:  
a voice with which we sing at the ocean or sky:  when nothing spoken 
will do:  Billy turns to me with his ocean eyes and whispers:  
it must end somewhere.  None of us come singing.  None of us.

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