The ocean turns with each new day
he spilled the beer and domestic turmoil abounds.
I dropped the receiver back
and lit a cigarette--- it tasted murky.
Her eyes are green with deep golden ringlets
around her pupils.
A dead spot--- there was nothing there at all.
Saw his lady drinking beer with another man all alone
said I'd like to take her to the shed
make pictures of her eyeballs.
She is like smoke--- she smells musky.
There is a crackling
it's too numerous, conjunctural---
the burden of the poachers
they line around you for favors.
They come to you under smoky skies
the smoky underlit city skies.
Coming around and hitting my fist on wood
it gets quite late when it's early then.
The cold wind blows on the orderly ghetto
the city is moonlit and quiet
silent black cars pass sometimes.
Watching the searchlight in the smoked up sky
as it crosses the perimeter
and doubles back upon itself.
-Will Dockery (1982)
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