hil (still_fiction) wrote in girlpoets,

Mr. Hunt likes to go for walks on the weekends
by the beach and the sea, through you and me
in old jeans and shoes, a rosary wrist
sporting jackets keep him formal
for indeed Mr. Hunt
does fit with the sand, a strong man made of a thousand tiny rocks
and a fragmented quizzical brow
Constancy shattered on the cliffs of a hundred shipwrecked mermaids
his sand mouth ponders
where their tales went, dipped back into the sea
seaweed coals in forgotten faces drown him
(from time to time) so he beached a bonfire
with seaweed as kindling.

Mr. Hunt likes the blue
of jeans and skies and sea
and dark nights starless
even the mermaids' songs sound blue from their rocks
contracting cerulean brainfreezes that entered his veins too quickly
a lethal lovesong
earmuffed cures help him home
a long way from home he is,
Mr. Hunt is.

Mr. Hunt likes the stormy days
pure skies give him no clarification
he is a barnacle man
of silicone and diatom sincerity, barnacles build on old memories
that rusted in his cabin's keep
the man in a tub, he is
rock can weather a hundred years
his tempests only come out on seaweed
a man who measures his life in driftwood
and jars of faded sea glass.

Mr. Hunt likes to fish 
the fish all afeared and afloat near his ramshackle rowboat
down into the depths deeper than the sea
the ocean bed of an empty man's empty belly.
no fear meant,
he is a man who throws his catches back
another day, another sea (and another you and me) 
his appetite a strange and salty one
ingesting the rythm of waves on the shore
steady beats appetizing
no one knows what he is fishing for
nevertheless himself.

Mr. Hunt likes the sea
Mr. Hunt liked me.
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