From the Fishouse

Body: mismanaged carapace
of was. You’d be better
as a constellation, ignoring light
years of interstellar bric-a-brac.
You could be Hammer Muted
by Shirt Sleeve or Sleep

Trip-Wired with Trumpets.
If I could remake you, I’d shape
the maker’s image. Adam’s
apple like a fistful of Tuesdays.
No more chin music. Once
new eyes adjusted, you’d see

only teal. A modernistic world
near-spun in blue, air and water
conjugate afterthoughts of Earth.
The trick: understanding vibrato
waking you nights when noise
and nights are anachronistic space.