no turn on red except on green

i’m dipping one toe in
through this shoe with broken binding
the man in front of me is waist deep
in Lake Michigan
shouting a poem into the waves and wind
i can only catch a few syllables
–sign–cert—-if i–loo—uphe—what now
between the timpani breath clubbing
this real-time erasure piece
absence and loss made holy
by what remains and if time were real
we could say live
we could say forfeiture
we could say matter-
what purple wine the water is
how to drink it from a goblet
how to hold it for a toast
and which eyelid to squint just right
to make a smile from chin to brow
so real so–true such a thing–to hold
no one could mistake it for sand
lodging in my cornea or blinking
from a gash of lightning
beyond the sailboats



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