They Are as Robinson Crusoes, Commanding
Shane Book

Sick on a quay. Quay-sick. There was sickness

on the quay. On the little cement area, a mass

laying on of hands. Over the spacious abacus

he sung out nine untested terrors. Hay strands

tied on. A pair of parakeets bolted

to a wave. From a blue mug, a hat trick

of notes left sticking straight out of the meniscus

of the cooling Paraguayan tea.