Belying the brick intercourse
of dock and cafe, architects
are binary in cyberspace
invisible, but for some mundane
purpose such as hailing a waitress
when they materialize in suits
wiping their glasses while the window-
washer winks and dreams of roses
Oregonian in Maine.
Naming these dribs of wisdom, 'pearl'
those drabs of halogen, 'chlorine'
a father struggles to explain
the nature of his job. His girl
asks him to send her dinner back,
fashions an origami crane
from a clean placemat, and for luck
drowns it in the gray harbor shore.
Knowing port towns from towns, yachtloads
of Company pensioners on tour
crawl slowly out from the long morning
shadow of DuPont. Next door
the Gearbulk Mozu Arrow docks.
A man in a dry raincoat spits
'Slip some hawsers round those chocks
and moor this poor ugly bitch.'
Goggled and diving, or landlocked
in grim, Coke bottle lenses we
see what we want to see. So says
the school of Landscape as Projection:
The moon as female or the tides
as moon-shaped. Landslides as kissing
decades of beach-front homes goodbye.
Or recently: mutations blinding
certain salt water populations,
endowing others with third eyes
trailing like red floats at the end
of severed fishing lines - eyes towed
behind thin tendrils of raw nerves.