Transients under cold water
washing the stains of work away,
long morning drives through fog –
the tracks of green men and goblins
lead temptingly over craggy fields
into gnarled and half burnt forests.
What dreams dwell on wooded isles
centrally in lapping lakes,
sprinkled with enough salt to taste,
sour scents of nearby tides pinching noses
dented borrowed cars ditched
in haphazard lots scratched along sanded curbs.
In the morning, late night bathers pay
in lost change and muddy brains.