Can you wait?

Faces stuck to the floor, this
queue could charge infinite suns and a number
glows on the lower deck, like Ahab talking
back to Moby, before harpooning
him, the razors are made of air
the air below scent, the boat
that is not the craft, but pours open still.

horizons split heavy with orange, fusing
with nothing but our passionful dance
shall this be the sea and space that devours all, or
shall this be that physical, helm, that I call upon
during the waving hands that a dog dreams
of
so built from the annexing water that only tears
dive from a waterfall
that only one city
can know loneliness
we all know
is untrue.

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