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Guts and Crosswalk

Vantage:

       the curb 
              and tide beside the curb 
                                  of soggy buds 
and moist minds 
             spilled loose with thrust- 

 
my innards {PRESSURIZE}
to rise me up, up, or down, down -

            but I am no fish.

the boots I kick are
                  bloated,
chilled still and mostly water. 

                  i peck the curb -
                  call out,
                  claw -

        caw gray thoughts
of snowglobes.

i ask you please
that you scratch 
at the base of my shoulderblade,

- that you scrape deep!
 so ice showers slough off me

like 
       ancient skin.

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