One of them makes the chalk outline of a deck there on the concrete floor.
Another sits on this deck scratching absently at two angry circles, red anklets, loops, just above the jut of bone. The deeper of the two seeps something clearish, sticky, where nails disrupt the crusted surface. Shrugs: scurvy or something."Did we forget to bring limes?"
"Leave it alone" growls the one holding the chalk, the boatwright, unconvincingly.
" It itches though" and he spits on a finger, seals the wound with glisten, a snail or salt track.
One more of them - forget this one now. It's not like he can do anything except breathe these almost imperceptable and too intermittant wet half-breaths. Put two fingers to the throat occasionally, if you remember. It's okay.
He drops the chalk: " Move him, he's dying on the fucking sail"
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I have no idea what the fuck this is about... Chalk? Limes? Boatwright? Glisten? Snail? Dying on the fucking sail? But it's... gah... it's beautiful.
ReplyDeleteTwo fingers to the throat... if you remember...
It's okay.
Hmm. ^___^
miss you-come back to us- u and ur beautiful poetry
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