morning on a full moon day

the tide is so high, King tide, the weight of the full moon is in my stomach

way back to little child waiting for the fishpot to bring up lunch

how many moons? Joe and I joked our life was split into moons not days and each coming round with a blow of being here and the work is on the bridge like it was the year in Nassau under that first bridge when the moray eels lived in the tires on the bottom under the dock and my best friend was an English boy who hated liver and onions and I agreed because the way his mother cooked it tasted like soap and I was five but remember clearly the green water and the smack boats

today I am heavy tired swinging down from the elation of a lover, a lover left, a lover I don't love who doesn't love me, a lover I think is destiny but maybe only a change in the weather not so drastic as climate only a day of rain or heat and the nausea from the heat off the road walking past the tired boats on a tired day and the heavy weighted blanket of September, the pent up of the unblown tropical lows and I fix stupid shit like hose ends and the background of my life is splitting being dragged behind me , wrestled like the water jugs down the twisted, broken dock of where I am and have been and I feel the power with the beats of the drum, the ache with the sax, and could have written sex, sex, sax, blues and meeting and leaving and my world is mine alone and I spin a vortex of memory and rise up to the surface of my sea