Dead, 42,000 nautical miles later, thin hair bleached white by sea air and sun, seemingly constantly growing thinner and the song also.
Like ten candlestick bowling pins whittling themselves, Aqua di Gio daubed behind where ears would be; blanketing the white wood by force, nostalgic for the nautical, cocksure of buoyancy, quick to draw, quicker to draw.
Forearm to indefensible club, balls to blue balls, lip to fat lip, hip to not hip, anger at sexual frustration to the maceration of small creatures in a white tub of lye for a long time—for the bones.
A moving wallflower, the wall moving, everything—in fact—moving, it all; confidence to inspire, blankets that the native Americans made, a body.
