A boat moves blackly

She sits next to the river. It is one part, and it is green. A wind nips it up in little pinches, pulled silk. She drinks the mostly flat.

This holds her like a hammock: feeling of burn and soft. Through the bitter slosh it is soft. And so she is.

There is no other mouth, no boy or girl. The lip of the bottle is green like water. When she wants, there is also fire. When she wants, heat enters her then she asks it in, that order, smoke, then its thick street, traveling down.

A body too can travel down. A body building or even city. Her years are thusly evening: she is out of streets to press into. Conversely, every street collapses her. It is not exactly sexy. It is also very sexy. She hates the bell of her fat part, its black water roil. 

Soon the smoothing will speed bluer, her word for it trued to the beer. She knows heavy and good a beauty. It blooms so she spends some money. For it she will be predictable. Rough beautiful in sharp drinky mouth.

In the lulling the lights look like every life Here is not. Possibility of large bed and larger bottle. Another skin to hold against her thinning middle. To not eat is of course and sex of course though colorless. What is it that wets the table when it opens, the slab of streetlight orange and open, like chalky dough slapped thin but open: the pier is not an ending. 

Now she is swallowing. She is swallowed by a hole in the ground that used to grow up. She could travel taller if an avenue opened forward, car-stopped and wide, old always-place, fall-down blocks of light feigning higher.

This is up the ladder. She seagulls looking out. Some pilings lapped at glaze blacker. She can see them and it is here in the dark and water she can see. 

A beer and building stays some breaks. New light. New apple of color starting to work (sleight, slant, tender-traced pare). It is still tonight singing that. She does and doesn’t know.