Stolen Lines (a cento)

They go as shiftworkers to the dawn,
our tribespeople.
Talking about the ones that escaped;
staring from a ferry prow
to remember everything.

The wind and sea say
he that possesses is possessed
and in the fire of indifference
with sorrowful quick fingers, heading south,
heading east,
smelling of sand and sex,
floating in a tide of money,
there is interest and boredom

and occasionally,
mapping the mysterious landscapes
between the two,
crying. Rocks.