New Poem #22

Speaks a devotional, whittles down the offshooting passing distractions. Or doesn’t. Sailers sail, their bark dead and floating, warped by commerce-promises, but at least. Maybe. Intervening fate, lurking inscrutably, nonexistingly. Stumbles from town to town, looking in windows, stealing space with his unwanted gaze, his fantastical mind like a vampire, requiring invitation. Hungry. Guilty.