Silver fins.

Mill owners of Buenos Aires

candy you a plate full 

of fortuitous shooting stars 

bound by the invisible lines 

that only your eyes can see 

and join the dots even 

when clouds hide them from sight 

the silver fins circle the night 

moon in your court.

Two Rhone ruins don’t make it right.

But keep Pouring 

The lights on the Lecturns 

the page left open at night 

thumbs that exploit rules 

drum solo that dime 

that revolves on its side 

The broken honesty box around its neck 

let’s close the blinds 

as the winter draws in

And wrap up our necks.