Captain Arcaro

Gallop vapor folded aluminum mare resonator Sun spits decorative decimals bleeding metal Scatter the hourglass pearl crown tidewater brine dusk Tongue sings driftwood bone galleys Captain Arcaro flew sideways through time, his boots full of fishbones, his teeth tuned to minor seventh. The geese were his crew— not honking but howling, in saxophone wails and accordion rhythms. Their wings left chalk outlines on the sky. Their feathers glowed radio static. They played jazz for the summer castaways and lullabies for clocks that had entreated tick. The captain’s coat was stitched from old shipwreck flags and funeral veils of extinct queens. He chewed nicotine like a pharmacist He swore in nautical Esperanto. Every Tuesday they dropped anchor in alleyways and cellars— set up brass, pounded beats on oil drums and ribcages. The geese wore sunglasses and carried their instruments in plutonium briefcases. They played for ghosts and runaway math, for librarians who’d lost their vowels. They played until time folded and sneezed into its handkerchief. Captain Arcaro, wild-eyed and burning with portholes blew into his rusted trumpet and declared: “Tonight, we fly the tempo into fragments.