From the Fishouse

When we are out of gas,
a headache haloes the roof,
darkening the skin of everyone who has a full tank.

I was told that the nectar of shoelaces,
if squeezed hard enough,
turns to water and trickles from the caribou’s snout.

A glacier nibbled from its center
spiders a story of the Southern Cross,
twin brothers
dancing in the back room lit with cigarettes
break through the drum’s soft skin—

Their bone faces atlas
a grieving century.