You hardly seem

    to be. You extend an 

appendage through Atlantic 

        density, heavy as toad

    croak, toward moon jelly—toward

            quartered stars scrambled

        in ocean. You hardly seem

            to be. The two of you slip

        into pockets of talk, stretches

        
        of banter smooth as stone,

            into purpled ocean dolloped

                with rocks proud and odd

            emerging from sea. You hardly

        
                seem to be. You, who will forget

                    her name but had just learned it

                        then, ask her as easy as sky

                meets sun to swim 

        
    at daybreak. You hardly seem 

        to be. You, face sunk in camp bathroom

            basin, sort through being swallowed

        in some strange dream’s stomach

        
                and received like a whisper

                    by the small hours’ mute colors—sort

                        through snippets of Kerouac sweeping 

                atop sleep smog, so yes, you do know

        
                        time. You hardly seem to be.

                            You bumble from bunk

                            bed, high still hung from the large

                    parts of brain, and find her – Shy’s

        
                friend who’s Joe’s girlfriend

                    who’s closer than brother –

                        holding coffee, steam curling

                into coastal fog. You hardly 

seem to be. You drain whiskey,

    hop bunk to bunk, laugh

laugh laugh when Davy,

        beer tilting, drifts off.

                You hardly seem to

            be. You smoke a bowl

                on gravel coastline, pass the piece

            between five, look at your parked

                        car stuffed with campstuff. You

                    hardly seem to be. You ball

                        the clutch up the coast, vault

                over state lines, watch Maine

            smear past windshield, smell

        Maine – streaks of fir, air sharp

            and clean – stream through

        sunroof. You, you hardly

                seem to be.

---

Caleb Jagoda talks in aphorisms until those closest to him demand he stop—but hey, you know what they say: Buy the ticket, take the ride. Caleb is a poet, journalist, and MFA candidate at the University of New Hampshire, where he works as managing editor for Barnstorm Journal. His work has appeared in Blue Earth Review, Polaris Literary Magazine, and Down East Magazine. He lives in Dover, New Hampshire.