Into Foam

Handle me gently, gunrunner. The lights on my shopfloor are all asleep, and I haven’t got a breath to spare. This is a caustic soda, and there is a hard ledge looming over the frostbitten gorge. I try from a distance, as always, and the gray ocean hums beneath me. The vibrations reach up to my knees, but no farther. It’s all very typical: the son of the archer is pierced by a sword, and then is put down among knotted roots, given over to serene inhibition. Loosely speaking, the river decides the shape of the bank, and the market remains a conveyor of glittering coal. The ship cuts itself out of the harbor, and disappears into foam.