Sick on a quay. Quay-sick. There was sickness
on the quay. On the little cement area, a mass
laying on of hands. Over the spacious abacus
he sung out nine untested terrors. Hay strands
tied on. A pair of parakeets bolted
to a wave. From a blue mug, a hat trick
of notes left sticking straight out of the meniscus
of the cooling Paraguayan tea.