I.
The Maritime epitome
leaks sensational exchanges
between moon magnets at play
Telephones open your eyes
Remember sweet nothings
stumbling shy and evasive on shore
and spraying its stones with cobalt kisses
‘ere tucking it in with the tides
II.
Without having consciously channeled
the Scottish mind for gesticulations
or affable sense of fashion
the hairs on my frame oscillate
in the unitary itch of a synthesis
Clouds shuffle in and shower me
with quaint accents
of Lambert and Connery
Dad’s origami of tape
in the Highlander VHS shell
A kind of magic
III.
Lock on and scoop up
the small islands swimming
like virtual pets in the jittery wilderness
of the ocean
Up the road the wharves exhale
eager to recast their splintered designs
on the ship-mother gut of Mira River
A blessing awaits its suitors
cruising in fresh paint
smoking Cape Islander uniforms
Water on water
recovers the fleet
to out-see the ragged red
floor denizens again
IV.
Old is alive
Small is endurable
Fishermen of a place old and small
are sponge toys under this sky’s
humdrum faucet drip
V.
Sample the pond in the womb of the meadow
Filter the fertile Atlantic stream for its insular
rock jewel
Let the screens show and suggest
that highlander fishermen still live here
Highlander could have been lived here
