1946

The walks from the boom
To the notochord. As along a quay.
A city wants to be a wide area
One piece at a time. Money wants
The furrow to lime
And circulate, no one has to see.
It can just curve and unwind.

I am walking from the end of the boat
To the rigid embryonic spine
Of the dock. Harbor's not busy yet.
It's either freezing or blasted here.
Somebody wants enough of these
Little breakables
To make the enterprise. Somebody
Knows enough people to sell them to.