How do these things work?

In rare moments of empathy
I think of how fucking
crazy I actually am,
and how disconcerting it must be
to have my drunk fingers, unsolicited,
fumbling into messages that I send through the air
when only the bats are out.

I can nearly see her
sitting on the deck of a boat,
hooking me (torn lips)
one-two-three times,
each time evaluating me
with a sigh
and throwing me again to the sea.

She massages a kink in her shoulder
with languid fingers,
and because she is so lovely
it never occurs to me
that she’s fishing
for some other fucking thing.

I float listlessly through the days
waiting for that magnetic glimmer of light.