This rigging from which our __________________
is swinging, the print of a palm stinging
under so many petals, which are actually kisses.
In the distance a smear of penguin
or land, I look out and it looks back.
I sail onto your dry dock, filmed
as if I am scenic. Someone is really hitting
those bells in the clapped out spy-station
so this also sounds like a shipyard
it’s not just a metaphor.
How many times can a stranger say ‘fuck’
aggressively to another stranger for the duration
of an escalator ride? We are about
to find out. His eyes are misty, his face an inflammation.
The steamship lowers its funnel
when it travels under the drooping bridge.
A punk inside a rubbish bin on Warschauer Strasse
plays it from the inside like a stinking drum.