A ship rope knotted with cotton thread

I am maroon-cropped, sunken
and shipped out – The harbor wall,  
I let my guard down with both dead legs    
hanging. The numb floozy...a heretical  
   
constant angel. Clung-to and taught with a line,  
wearing to the shore all the wingless nike  
and heavy shells of the love...the love that will have to be left behind.    
   
These wet shoes hanging, dripping,
drying against the radiator.  
   The thymine aroma of black market rubber  
   and slave-labor lace...    
   there, where your deep eye shadow  
   with all its bullish theo/biological charges;  
stares, fueled towards the horizons.  
   
Held, zoo-like within the glassy cleft between real life  
   and death  they say  
that you will leave me then.  'Yes, I am cold' I am...  
   
I am too cold for any thought of being saved  
by small village churches and their choirs and chorus  
as if  I have had enough of no signs of love pressed into me.  
   
Perhaps an etching of Ishmael,  
   with his red hymn cooling underneath;  
perhaps his cotton training bib    
had borne too much acid for us  
to copy and redefine his last words.  
   
In a  dot, a blemish staining  
    a dotted line...  
obliterate the pretense,  
with a signature sign of progressive proper behavior,  
the seagulls will fly when I touch their water...