Flies doped, weaving flies sick in liquor—alit on my pedal. Arrival of boy with iced ouzo and water; my needle forges on, sews up the water. I’ve trucked out the Singer to sew on deck.
At play ‘midst the afterdecks, boys shuffling; cries, set raw in the wake, drifting island—the flies tip behind to keep with the current. Curling fiber runs raw in our wake.
I sew on the deck, between shore here, and shore there, here, there, everywhere shores; curving lumps laid in heaps so-high on lazulled swells. You, mend the water as we sew merr’ly along; the doped flies talk as a swooner would and bring their talking here, to curl ‘bout my ears. Again, my heel taps. Sew flies in a web, and tear it again, for them to plow out in a blackened bunch! ...And after that, we ship against shore.
-2001
