Terry Cloth

My view of the old Ratner’s sign, where
it once went, now going when gone. Three

stories up flat asphalt sits as I did sit,
on parking lot planes, a blue-ok,

Florida, struggling writing poems around
flies in my poems.

Each every-holiday stoked, about, tiny
pools the clear juvenile (vision) exhaust

bent eastward, south, at fisher’s island-
ferry, lifted, explanations of self

its heavy carriage, its heavy remorse,
a skewed dance overlooking

a risen skyline.