Waterlimos.

This is how the night will play out:

No waterlimos, no gulls to descend
On peanut bags, no bag boater's shout.

No reason to shout.

The vine won't wither when you
Decide a kiss goes afoul
Of me.

The grape won't taste of poison
The gland won't spout.

What nature, my tongue
And these lines

Should profit
Content to go elsewhere,

Diverge, disambiguate, reroute

Will decelerate.


As if by suggestion of numbers
A pudgy zero will think, then mouth

Maybe there:

Navigate a tipping bow by it, then
Lose it in the heaving salts, eye
craning, wisdom and its bounding amount,

Hereabouts.