Ocean Metal Cloud

The day is like an ocean
of clear metal
tepid, muted, greengray, salty, fragrant with seamoss,
I smell the distant sounds of sunlight from above.
Ishmael and I stroll the early morning fog
on the pier in Grand Marais
and we are nothing like water at all.

But wait, what I really want to tell you
is that I still feel cold from that winter I spent in Thunder Bay,
killing two birds with one stone.

But today, the sea air causes the waves to freeze in place
(but only above the water line).
Ishmael says he wants a double-double at Timmy’s
and I want nothing, I say, the fragrant cloud of forgetting
and the erasure of memory is all that I want to remember.
Ishmael doesn’t want to sail, ever, or stay on land.
Katydid will go sailing, someday soon,
with vapor boats that do not need to float.
The clouds are all secret boats, it’s a fact.
“Wolken sinken wie Blei,” says a lonely dolphin,
swimming past.
The ocean replies with cloud and metal.

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