That's what we had, maybe. One day before our faces. Now, this is where we are. Trying on well-fitting boots. We bought them. The book. The line. The sinking thoughts. Them too, we bought. “Fuck the farm, we bought the boat!” The oars and the ocean too. And then we threw them all in. Chopped the little ones for our chum and threw them in too. I can see them now, our pieces, moving up from the dark like bright fish. Our beautiful boat is eating us. This poem first appeared on my friend Jeremy Nathan Marks' project, Poetry of the Resistance.