Because stories are told,
not experienced as sound and fish flesh —
the stamped plasterboard encouraging dim sum
amateur red paint covering itself
afraid of its own reflection. Your name
flits in flux, in the criss-cross sidewalk slab
adjusted circles coming in transit
three legged letter race.
Muralist says history doesn’t exist only
intense perfume lingers
industrialism elbowing itself for the last whiff.
Because you go down this road too often —
levees and water ebbing alive
peeling back a push. You go down
and notice how the beach after fishing
is covered with solar lights, spirals
in sand rippling and beautiful.
Soda cans squashed by parking permits
one time uses to both. Beltfish, just one.
Because the fish don’t matter, your brother does.
The gaiter blinding white and green membranes.
Because the drapery doesn’t last forever.