the second straight (matthew rohrer imitation)

glares splayed between the islands
all afternoon. denizens have tossed
blankets and towels on its belt,
stacked firewood on its cuffs.

the straight sails into space to dream at night.
cabins smoke on either bank of the islands.
no one trolls my unconsciousness, he tells the moon.

four boaters float towards the first buoy.
second by second blinks.
An old couple, over a game of scrabble, hear the engine
but doubt what their warning would translate:

that a green man back-frogs beneath the surface?
that the straight has a vestment in the stars?
that the slick surface is coated with ashes
like extinguished sunlit waves?