the baleful primal

gull-gray waves and salted shorelines
the bay of the english, anchors weighed

along the severed lines of blood is
history
crawling art, sprawling arms
chilly walls and chilled bones, wrapped in
rags 

curling smoke from parted lips as traffic
lumbers by
waiting for a bus that apologizes when
closed
(but never when it’s late, hm)

a culture so rich, it’s near religious.