Steering someone else’s boat

Luke Kennard

To take a home between your finger and your thumb,
stick out your chest, insinuate against
the bank you would avoid is to be numb
to all your cheerful vanity and pretence.
We cut a ragged path under my captaincy.
The towpaths are a fitting prayerbook for
a dipsomaniac, wandering hermit monk.
Sunlight through branches quickens, so ignore
the dogshit smell of hydroponic skunk.
Trust the Loops. The shaggy tollbooth islands,
bowers of rotting pyramidal flowers,
the gorgeous dereliction of a bridge.
The prison, like a demon stadium,
squats in your peripheral vision.
the crenelated printer’s arm goes back and forth,
records the soul of battered industry.
I’ll think of it when my own mind’s not right,
go home, try not to steer my own awry.