What could be true does not interest you at all
As if you knew every new fact obscures the truth
A mad orange slave on a slaver ship at dawn
Squinting your eyes and counting waves
But shot back from traveling on a shuttle bus full of queasiness
Headed home and hurtling forward towards a certain doom
As the rain on the windshield streaks down the glass
You notice a fissure, a glinting gold splinter then a sickening crack as your
neck snaps and takes you back
To a different Dutch slaver passing curving cliffs at dawn
With grandpa’s fat wraith directing you onward
While his insect lieutenants hack limbs off with their swords
You squint your eyes and count waves