The liquid tin light of early morning is already a soft corrosion by nine & the ghosts
Are breaking open on the river.
You capstan. You gunwhale.
You that green wound clicked off at dawn.
I used to see their bodies as cartoon or part of the ungreat chain of despoilers
Yet now they are solid little spectres of a dwindling narrative
Tire-haloed bows & a hull of salt, yanking the tired barges across inlets, estuaries, arterial passages
Empty or pale with cremains, dieseling their engines of the afterlife
Beneath the black 19th century dream.
You funnel. You Bollard pull.
You pushboat of the ephemeral end.