A journal of narrative writing.
Shrimp Boats Too, Biloxi
		 a response to McGrath

Those feet, those shadows, that stand of angels
shredded in the back bay, rat-straight
lines and low dawn
skies, toes broken, chafing and ashy
in quick camps
and waves, the catfish, the sails,
the scraped signs
our nights regress into,
wind-locked, sun-betrothed, sacred
as steel. Move
and years
depend. Mothers, aunts
wander beaches
with knives, heels skim concrete
street pieces, rusting iron visions
half-immersed. Honkey-
tonk Enthusiasts up from worship
services with banjos, several
layers of dirt, supplicate
for soup, a tune and grace, amazing
as they gather
photographs, and those unattended
crab nets
aren't everything
uncertain. I think the shark's
psalm, murky dog
woods listening for spirits, water-born
from ecstatic loners, oil
puddles and crows and half-sunken skiffs
from Mobile Bay, cuddle
and lift
at the moment in,
the calm
out, I think,
the rest of faithlessness,
the clear sky, soothed
asleep on the land's
stand, I think,
coddles, comforts, the sea-floor's
the orange naps						
of midnight. Bitter
cider vinegar of living
take my means 
of breaking, steal my silence,
my sugar, my still. Minute birth from other worlds
cover my feet with lotions
of your cast-off
bodies, forget me
with your families,
plunge me into your lightning
discord. Moon, water, body
deliver me
into those accoutrements of morning light.