Wayne Price – Hammer and Feather

photo credit: Varde Kommune

 

Wayne Price
Hammer and Feather

Another day in the same shirt. No-one
knows me here; I talk in smiles
and gestures. After dark
I sometimes stroll to the harbour,
watch the dealers at work,
and the prostitutes, nervous, veiled,
alert. They stand in a quiet, moonlit
town of their own, built from the fishy air
each evening on the slippery rocks
beyond the harbour wall, dismantled
by dawn.
Or I might eat late
at the tented stalls where the fish
are gutted into plastic pails, and the cats,
lean and mirror-eyed, orbit
and mew at the edge of the light.
Or stay in and lift the window,
listen to the close, equatorial Atlantic
muttering in its planetary sleep.
Solitude
is a kind of weightlessness,
a silent, untethered flailing
in space.
The fishing boats, rank after rank,
creak against their ropes;
above their wagging masts
constellations circle
the dark like cats. Love
is hammer and feather dropped
on a distant moon,
landing together.