Aquarium abuts
hipsterium. My heart
beats fast – blame
Synthroid, that’s uppers
without sin. Maybe
I’m breathless for
obelisks of lost feeling,
my love. Or at 6s
and 7s over
my ruinous profession,
reporting, that used
to pay for words.

Viewing tanks
next to the hot algae
chick, the ginger, tattoo-
anchored corner men.
The maritime condo
clatches, the watering holes
spitting out old sea
dogs or aging yoginis,
for whom breathing’s
a career choice.
For nearly all: ‘self-
employed’ means
still alive. This
Census is eternal.

Marriage our collective
scar tissue webbing
over extreme emotion.
We name stuff and hope
that’s proof. How
reporting works.

‘Cities like this
are much married,’
I say, ‘There’s a pro-
bird ban on
drones. Against
voyeurs?’ You check
your retweet.
Speak sockeye-
voiced, as if swimming
upstream, praising
The Family; the ’burb-
boisie. I remind that
the chinook arrive home
then DOA.

As water levels
are different
for each body
of water, the lock
evens them out,
while panic is always
in a body as well as
a head.
Beside ourselves:
upset but also
outside our ‘I’.
Breathe fast:
algae robots;
sprinters with gills.
Tears a symptom yet
we are also sad.
Reporting equates
naming with truth.

Nearby artisanal
dives blink pink,
in neon announcing
that though we are far
from home we are
still somewhere.

 

 

Photograph © Viv Lynch

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