while a sleepy olive figure
rests his moon slashed eyes
on the kingfish.
in this mud-cake shotgun,
cobalt bleeds from a painting
now defaced and infamous,
sinking through the floorboards.
i can smell sugarcane burning
somewhere beyond the swamp
as sweet magnolia sweat
hammers my shrimp boots like rain.
and i leave my lungs, my faded jeans
full of cheap silver and film
to rust with the boat,
wishing for gills as i jump first.
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