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The Beachcombers

Embarcadero Station

Berrigan I
	Shielded from our warmth by the wind We are anchored in the white of the sky And meaningless outside Certain in accidents A substance of space for space We are documenting nothing On the bare floor of your apartment Pressed inside photos like mirrors Our codes our wires our hands our distance Blood is still blood: even in the stillness Aggravated by the slow of the underground He marks turned down pages, an ungraceful animal Illuminated by the night bus His hooded beard. A bright white jaw
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The Beachcombers
	rise a filament worn well on a bought tooth a dog [the shame the bark the sirening flash of burnt metal flushed milk in stones seabreem thin] raise spongy voices rich as buttermilk and swallowed then combed the wrapping of agate crowned high on tin thickening curls all like tallow [collapsing gowns ragged the stain sharp the same shape the same glued palm sweat length of a plastic toy gun] ostriched voice screeching “I heard them round up glass-
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Embarcadero Station
	At least half of us understand. Those of us Aggravated by the slow of the underground Don’t think about her lips, the dead bodies Buried beneath the bridge in thick columns of cement Through gusts of dark oceans clipped with green He marks systems of transit as a replacement They will never stop lying about the passage of time Filled with women in the most honest sky. The boys ride Skies, dear Ted: distance is the substance of space It was never a jungle anchored in white or green boys Certain in the accidents of ungraceful animals She left her babies for an oven, shielded from warmth In the white of the sky. I will never Stop lying, I will set myself on fire
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ANDREA KNEELAND’s first book, the Birds & the Beasts is forthcoming from Cow Heavy Books. Her work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, most recently Wonderfort Gigantic, FRiGG, Vinyl Poetry and Barrelhouse. She is a web editor for Hobart.

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