WHAT REMAINS

to you, a year from now-

when climbing up the lighthouse stairs

you must always consider the pawn.

all the puppets placed for a someday, whale

blubber bought and bottled, everything undrunk,

all those placeholders. you’ll get to it later and

that later is here and now and asking for a room.

you’ve got to start surfacing, come to and cut

your bangs off. you’ve got to use,

feed, feel satisfied, take a drink, tear your way out.

dismember the lingering. when you finally ascend

to stairtop and make your way to the telescope,

you clutch a sandwich wrapped in wax-paper and softly

press two quarters in. you see inlet’s edge and

tangerine boats and pelicans bellies sloshing wave,

then, a sigh when the rusty blinds come down. you

snatch whatever coins you have left and vacate.

you’ve got to get lost, get low, love loudly. waste

your income looking at the ocean. control in a nosedive

and power in a probability. come back up the spiral. clang

all your pocket change into the slots (they are only there for you)

stop thinking about the crimes your hands have committed

and just conduct the orchestra pit.