Knights, Knaves, and Nautical miles
In reproach,
in distance, like
navigation, the mouth
is a ocean, a metaphor,
a man,

a mouth can never be a woman,
never be a knight,
never in the night when
tongues are dry and rotted
from lack of speech,

she is only the leak of
water through a drain into a
pipe, she echoes often,

oftentimes replacing
self with regression,
retention of the acts
of self indulgence

she moves in nautical miles,
yet miles grow longer,
the length of the leg
lessens with fools
and folly and so many
winter conclaves
where she's dragged
herself like a plow
across time, thinking
that to be remembered
she must constantly
understand herself,

like perfection,

a remembered
gleam in an
already blinded eye.