Part-Timer Mid-Orbit

Skipper of a cracked step. But hide-and-seek

overstayer. Second-guesser yet compulsive

über-archer. In the park, underreaching.

Down-scoring at the arcade.

Wherever I flew. On the tiles of a motel,

tried to piece back a monument to see if it would

mist riverside again. The real mouth dried up.

Find me a hazard I’ll turn a pond.

Early on, I made the cut into a kitchen for saying

assisting would not feel complete until I educated.

In between I gleaned part- some full-

time with scraps to pass. Happy orbit!

indeed. In between I unstitched my coat, moved

to town where I’d run into my ex, who side-eyed me

like I came to collect. Jack of all spades.

Dropout? Caver? Not tags I pin. I can only

gold-dig my pocket. Given exact, queued.

Known intros by heart. I haven’t asked

to switch seats. I own no shades.

Let a line crease my face. My garland grows

angular. I thought of toil as many motherless under

noon sun, looking up to heavens the pyramid

will lead their queen to. Terms look like rain.

But my father: Stop thinking of law as abstract.

Later, my father: Start with integrity.

One job lasted a year plus. I thought level up.

None of that this too shall pass as I waded, interludeist

in a pool past three, Wednesday of a summit

before both earlobes were in. And my arms

made a ripple, like it could cast a frequency.

Carayan

The word for river, I gather also for the rest

of the deep waters toward high seas—

a novel flowing to poem. K up north,

where once upon a time fishermen had no need

to farm mullets more prized than mother-

of-pearl. Purple sky stormed;

the tide delivered president’s fish.

Boatloads before a net was cast.

As with lobsters shown on Bizarre Foods

in New England in America

centuries ago. These days

an angler can trawl all night

farther out from the bay, from dusk in rain,

homegrown RnB. Those dreams of gold stalks,

credit full, juice from husks, just to bring home

a Styrofoam of silverfish-family. Lord willing.

If it is brought back then it was owed—

sounds sound in the market.

Those who recall the champion chuckle on

the flavor’s smell—shades of fried mackerel scad

and skate, monsooned-on lagoons.

Clear seabed. Fisherfolk can bellow and plead

all they want at waves, the break

that knows best these rhythms only form

U of a circle. But never once debtor,

mother nature.

Lore of islands. No handful heed

the howl of ghosts who traded their last glimmer

mid-sea, from the start.

Who can’t keep the foot in the door

from sinking? Debate this

season sees barge after barge cross

rims. Foresees huts slam stilt by stilt

on soft earth. Who has been? Where is

whose shame in a string of humid siestas

condensing spills, drifts. Till brine, spit, thin air.

Always in the ether, in the rationed

metro I’m asked a new @. Feels more South

than West bait. Sometimes the ancient name

for stream, the root too

of the province where Ma was born, black-

pearls. Unlocks a security question.