Midnight and the peopled pier lights the cold shiver of the Sound we trust to deliver
up delicacies, jigs probing in stiff hope through midnight waters where curiosity schools
to illuminate our deceptions.
Suddenly impaled, the creatures write fear black, the spent ink of Nature’s needful
poets, caught in this other world, their camouflage gone wrong misinterpreting bright
intentions, all their slippery sensitivity published in a thick sloppy bucket.
But over white wine in the Italian restaurant, ink-besotted intellectuals dissect the
deep rewarding circles of their arguments delivered as bite-sized morsels for exotic
rubbery offeratory mastications of resilient substance, connoisseurs classifying
substantial textures, the densities of salivary reasoning measured against elemental
octopus, sophisticated clam and the latest, most fashionably digestible, deeply moneyed,
culinary philosophers, flashing opinions like tooth jam.
At the next table, I sit waiting for someone I cannot name, someone whose talents
might be at least social, if not sexual, not those of a lonely posturing scribe, someone who
might sit at the same unmetaphorical table, not knowing the companion they have
chosen, casting a questioning line, the hook sharp and obvious, deeply surprised when it
comes back squirming with simple, delicious, unexpected delights to pass across the
forbidding table’s vast, sometimes readable, welcoming ocean.

Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.