There is a pair of mooncalves,
blue and stagnant on the wall,
and the window traffic slurs
and the legs begin to crawl.
Their cold protruding caps
are enticing like the tides
and my sweet Achilles gills
are all sputtering in stride.
The water here is murky
as my chest compresses bones
and I'm thirsty for escaping
and not for casting stones.

 Photo Credit: Margaret Durow