BOATS

1 0 6 Y B O A T S H A I L E Y L E I T H A U S E R Boats are sad folks as they rock and they rock tied in the dull tinfoil light to their docks. Boats could be cradles, they look just like cradles so emptied and hollowed of hope that they float. Boats adore all the green rivers and seas that ignore them, that pat without romance their broad wooden backsides in rhythmic, laconic, salty, fat slaps and how they are cozy and slow, boats, lonely, given the names of out-of-date mistresses, 1 0 7 R loved and abandoned like mistresses: Patsy, Peggy, Trudy and Beatrice. Co≈ns are boats too, scuttled and scrapped in a close, airless ocean, less empty perhaps, but still sad. I had a boat once and I painted it blue. I assume it was glum as the rest and I guess it forgot me in time, and maybe it swelled and it rotted and maybe its tiny blue paint flakes blistered and swam as a swarm of stubborn, lost stars chipped o√ and shed in the balletic brace of aggregate heavenlight slopping its wake. ...