I, Riley Bowen, Am Approaching Immortality 
And Have Hired a Biographer to Make Sure 
I Am Known Entirely by Forthcoming Generations.
Riley Bowen

On the shore of my town a ship tied up 
to the pier, rained oranges from Florida. 
I stood, drenched in color, stealing from the surf.

The biographer writes nothing of theft, 
water, sweetness. He is neglectful. 
This will take him such a long time.

On the coast of the morning I wake
face first, slatted with sun. Undying. 

He fails to dedicate a single line 
to my walking in the hallway. 
To my ears in the wind.