The Tourists

by stephen hastings-king

They acquire him in a bar that is famous for its shipwrecks.

His eyes are blue marbles. 


Drinks are a continuous stream. 


The elaborate stories he tells alter them warp and weft.


They disclose all their secrets.


In the air the sideband voices of amateur radio operators is a fluttering electronic chorus.


They have always known him.


They walk with him past fishing boats that hang in the air.


He leads them to the water, to a labyrinth and an azure plane.


The dissolving of the waves is a laugh track.


He weaves them into the environment. 


They have always been here.

He is the warp and weft. 


They float among the pillars beneath the docks.