The war starts in the way You pass by anchored ships Nary a glance, at the rats on the ropes Departing with that verminous intelligence In swift, prehensile fingers Eyes dawn red Salt on your lips Envied by gulls (unequally envious) You discard the mess They only for a moment Fold an outstretched wing A squall to bite The morning a lament The plane of the horizon Tilting a few uncomfortable degrees Dizziness is relative (you think) To the sea in your inner ear Slowly soughing While from an unknown distance (You are still with me?) In the imagined interstice, stars fading in the bruise The world tilts like a toy on its axis
