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.