mindful mopping never stopping
to feel the wet as i squeeze it out
of tendrils gray and ragged then
dump what's left in the street
meta five, as four is not enough
to explain how far i've come but
never alone and still not as the
look remains elusive still with
only one or maybe two before
quintano came back again just
to say hi and thumb his nose
at what i thought i left behind
but the fronds are being tossed
by waves i can't see and the two
are rather lost, or rather left me
behind in a fine dust, crushed
quartzsite and dreams spilling
through the narrow opening
quintano mocks me now
laughing at my inability
to look past thinly
cranes erecting or dredging
to build or clean and leverage
a rusting shell left out for
too many seasons
quintano just shakes
frozen ropes
at his feet
