Knee, throat

Hinemoana Baker

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.

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