Alchemisland

You hardly kiss me

I am Nelson dying, knowing triumph is at hand

Guided to the mystery, surrounded by gallants

Saying Kiss me, Hardy. Give your hand as ballast.

Flimsy the sand hemming in the sea from the land

I cannot see the seaside without the brand of Hemingway’s heavy hand.

I felt unforced a smile’s expansion. That creep-up port kicking in.

The process of keeping in

Hardly makes one an inn keeper;

Holding onto expired grievances won’t win me my appealing prizes

But if someone poised to touch them

I’d scratch out their Sam Hall eyes.

Like some amoeba window-sustained

I was, mistakenly, made to eat pain;

To strain vitality from the barest filth

The first human streetsweeper, or of that ilk.