I always feel guilty when they mumble like that

Fish don’t exist. The dancing houseboat mommas go
unreflected, the boats unsmoothed, the defenestrated streams of toad beer
undiluted, in the flat, intelligent water, gliding
latherly like a blonde woman staring, through sunglasses, across
a wooden table, at a shy, not unattractive man
who I suppose is me, only I would be holding her hand
already, and I am not yet holding the water’s hand.
I am not holding the cloud’s hand but how could I complain
when I have already bitten its lip, let the light leak, like
a Polish summer, wobbled its hips and drained
its bank account. If that white cloud was a woman
she would not be a white-haired woman. She would be
a blonde, like all women. She would tell me to hold
still while she blows a fly off my eyebrow.

by Col. Baldwüllz

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