Opstedal, to himself

The window doesn’t
open like an orange
although daylight will
peel shadows from the glass
as I broker a deal w/the night

The story of
an Opstedal, & a bad thing
              my sins & wickedness

across the great divide

              (Front Street down around to
              Beach or out on the further
              reaches of the coast highway

                        my DNA all over that
                        scene

staggering in the dark
              like an ex-champ
                        in over his head

All the windows I’ve stared through
                        into gray mist, lost worlds
              only there as time allows

I have lived along the frayed edges of
a practiced distraction