It’s hard to start I hear
an electric organ on the wind
the spores too float around giving out prizes
the claw game dithers over
where they burst from
their fungal bubbles they pop
out of love of spreading they spread
with thunder and organ mingling conversation
the claw game cannot pick up
every breath commodified cannot be commodities
traded for a cup of seawater
I boil for a drink in Zone One the palms
I am only following their hands
caressing the wind’s face flooded
smokestacks only flutes now
how I hear where I am
learning to be scattered without quarter/s
pocketed blithely by the current sea