to you, a year from now-
when climbing up the lighthouse stairs
you must always consider the pawn.
all the puppets placed for a someday, whale
blubber bought and bottled, everything undrunk,
all those placeholders. you’ll get to it later and
that later is here and now and asking for a room.
you’ve got to start surfacing, come to and cut
your bangs off. you’ve got to use,
feed, feel satisfied, take a drink, tear your way out.
dismember the lingering. when you finally ascend
to stairtop and make your way to the telescope,
you clutch a sandwich wrapped in wax-paper and softly
press two quarters in. you see inlet’s edge and
tangerine boats and pelicans bellies sloshing wave,
then, a sigh when the rusty blinds come down. you
snatch whatever coins you have left and vacate.
you’ve got to get lost, get low, love loudly. waste
your income looking at the ocean. control in a nosedive
and power in a probability. come back up the spiral. clang
all your pocket change into the slots (they are only there for you)
stop thinking about the crimes your hands have committed
and just conduct the orchestra pit.