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Port Authority

Eric Abbott

Suss in cant comes
clean, plums glutton,
unsung tongues, singed.

Go blind child slow
into any new harbor.
Every disaster is mined.
Every mine somebody’s sister.
Every artery somebody’s dumpster.

I neither despair
nor presume, I am.
Nothing within me
makes me wrong.

Smock of filth, smut
bath, Dis-dress, in submersion
savvy is the trick.

Bridal shower, daughter
shrine, altar piece, what
of it. As a bride-to-be,
showered in wet sequins
who could love a beaten man, who
could be beneath me now.

Silverfish swim in our correspondences,
firebrats in others’ heated exchanges.
Littlest sentients, life sentence, commutable drive.

This spill, albatross, necklace
of Hylas, of man having passed, whimsy all over
her splashy accessories, a wake, diamonds
extracted from coal ridge, move mountains
to get the goods, downhill, everything
finds its way here, finale with fireworks.

The definition of quest: endless
attempts to get back to that
undivided, liquid, existence, crawling
from the water, the ditch, the crotch
into the garbage, the grail, the grave.

Say no to cave painting.
Some things we love for other
than what they are, for what
they aren’t. If felching salvation, missionary,
position yourself before a friendlier door.

Eric Abbott

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