The Westerner

Always reaching

I am

Always in the wharf

And am always reaching nearer 

The storks brush against my fingertips, dropping me not more than a drip 

Of that salty lip of ocean 

The earth of minor ulterior calculation swims swimmingly

At the bottom of my cup

A psyop of passive ruminations

A holy room is what I lie with

And a wallpaper from Piedmont is who I am company with

Rooms within rooms 

Pews like a ribcage 

Drinking beside a man who’d ne’er forget my face

Describing me as Western architecture in the hereafter

I misfortune the bartender

My math is without a calculator

I sleep in the same room as the table dancer

And the shadow of a man the night before her

I visit your country and extract the right one thereafter

It’s nothing that a morning can't always remember 

Awake in sweat 

Sheets the same fabric as the sofa

The splitting lights from the railway stops in the corner

I can tell that train is always coming

Humming in between my ears 

The pillow of upside down feathers

The man at the bar says to me 

YOU ARE NOT DONE YET

Like an hourglass, the sweat drips 

And that salt of the ocean soaks into my lip

Not done with what?

I twist and sit

And so I sit for eternity with his breath under my teeth

Done with just about everything I could drink

And every Island I could sink

The company in the corner of my eye blinks

It's red all over the place

And I won't sleep for another week