Scientifically speaking,

Thin ghosts of albatrosses evicted from the bay after the predawn mist convention congregate in the cool, moist shadows of abandoned warehouses whose blurred, gray facades color form intertwined armadas of umbilical death – and this is why urban footfalls echo louder in saltwater fog.

Still, I’d rather absorb their insults and mockery like a dysfunctional sponge as I pass them on my way down to the slippery array of chains waiting in Aquatic park then spend another twitching, sleepless sunrise smelling her blonde honey fragrance on flannel sheets of embrace she will never share with me.  Alone, beneath those sheets, I’m no better than these wretched wraiths. They won’t follow me though, the way her essence does.

Down on savage, feral fairways, stillness rules the odd humidity.
Down on untamed and shaggy fairways, wounded cuckolds are deaf to jeers.
Down on neglected, abused fairways, silence is healing.

Here is not about what goes un-witnessed. 
        is not about Aces. 
        is the hurling of demons with precision hook and devastating carry. 
        is the killing of albatross ghosts if it doesn’t work the first time here
        is the day.