Exiting On Map Screen

This light-shape,          perfectly lean. We
press against it with our chins.

Sometimes we text details:
                                shouts or doubts
irridescent trails, short forms of
                                 nestle-connective -
surfers gathering.

This seems to be a new
                      rather, baggy heft of we,
a ghostly gull’s sweep -- beautiful lulls
of gliding minds.

Changing sails, naked pearls, drowsy sirens, all
in a curious circle,
           salting the smile.

The wooden sea is brutal -
waves crude and somber -- the lost machine of bridged suns.
We sleep with flabby shoulder sockets, weighted
              faces under feathered curls – shapes more delicate
as  a dark wind blows the passing moon,

                                                     that scalloped slur.
........................................................................................