marstrand
Beth my youngest Margaret. We suffer from yes—we come beautiful—we come wanting.
This is the way of Marstrand—passing five sins to Margaret. She is of consequence in her plastic arcade. Some whisper in search of favorite colors and numbers and I am that boy. Someone made the cave. Someone made the footpath to the slave. Someone made the slave. It was all still and then she flew/in the cave pictures of new animals (they say we were almost apart).
There is a noise that reminds me of my loss. Those missing on the ferry to Marstrand. The walk by the water and rocks. The fell. My loss saved in half bubbles floating in puddles of rain. The boats painted [yellow and blue] with ropes drifting out to the boy.
I am entering now. The place. The skin beneath her skin that I touch (more than touch, more than skin) in the room above the sea where the bones of men mingle with those of plain animals.
