Ana & Tinman Assess Contingencies

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Ana & Tinman Assess Contingencies


Hardly a screech was there when
Out walked our naked mother instinct
Her river barges leaking petroleum
She casting nets for contingencies.

Being with Ana is like gargling salt water
We had crossed humid evenings had we
Striding damp-broiled fishy Sounds
Ana fronting inked lines for dinner when

Humid evening’s curse hit us
Making long oboe sounds
Pierced ears & survival modes
We broiled the assess of Gulf snappers

Sucked scented cheese-thyme & snapper
Such meals noisy, bad,

Yet we shoved our skiff toward melted sky
The moon’s reflection like foil strips
Yeah, it wasted romance at the waterline
Barges chugging on to Apalachicola

Mozzarella events while him cruising highways
Quarts of distillates half-full voices crying
Onward is not so placid & the traffic has
Lost its mixture and romance to be

Or what wasn’t there like shoes wet
Souls creased & him lifting sewerage
Set out, so to say, in purified offerings
Yes, the air flowed out & off & hung to.


After dinner—which wasn’t so bad, even with the mozzarella cheese melted on the broiled snapper, which was easily lifted off and set aside—Ana and I walked across the highway and sat on the sea wall for a while. The traffic was so noisy, we took off our shoes and crossed the beach to the damp sand at the waterline. Out on the Sound, a line of barges being shoved by a chugging boat crossed in front of us, making its way toward Mobile. The moon had risen and hung half-full, casting a long reflection on the placid Gulf water. The still, humid air was scented with a mixture of sewerage and petroleum distillates. Hardly romantic but we were not there for romance. The evening’s events had awakened our instinct for survival, so it was time to assess contingencies.


Nevertheless having instincts for shaggy weight
Combined with amoeba-less friends
Who contort the seagull sky
She mentions as if outlasting

They brother’s funeral now
It clogged streets Burgundy & Conti
Wailing his loss & scrubby
We met the many liners with

Russet hairs while we skinny outsiders
The father and the wholly boast
Got lost asking for canned peaches
Rotting rank and buzzy-flied

Yeah, that’s into what we liked
Our Frisco friend’s been oh so vocal
Always Ana scraped her violin airs
That she abruptly logged online.

Photograph by D Young. Biloxi Beach at Sunset, 1987.


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