Jason Whitmarsh
EACH SWITCHBACK THE LESS SECURE
You claimed a weathered antique in your chest
of possessions and gave me reason to believe
I one day would sail in it,
or at least set rudder by its burnished reflection.
You felt a bit of the bends in the up and coming
and wished my lead belt were more lead, less belt.
Dappled in the underneath, we once (arrayed
in wetsuits) sank too slow—a haberdashery cut
at the first sign of trouble, the profits invested
in the wherewithals, smitten and sartorial.
You claimed a bit of what I carried.
You made your case through the mail.
[originally published in Verse, 16.3/17.1]
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