It's Zipper On Your Shoulder and You Dancing
Poem by Chris Young  •  Art by Kees Terberg

Today almost every boat,
untied, bears an ocean of light. It's the hour's
start, the sky's time for fire.
The waves have been awake forever.
Earlier a watchman whispered
what he could hear himself saying to his wife
in a little while. And he whispered more
while his shoes, each one,
fell to his hand, then to the floor.
Now the empty cigarette
and candy wrappers swish, do the trick of talk,
and the dock's girly voice never really stops. No one's
foot-tapping the water's edge, looks like. Last night
lovers may have stopped at your window.
The cat, by then, asleep on your shifting shoulder. An arm floating,
backside, front side, a flash of cheekbone,
a leg lost in the shape of an unlit lamp, for a second
the whole room full
of just you, a twist of darkness,
an unfinished accompaniment to music
the waves keep stealing.

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