The boardwalk is a circuit trace.

Plank by plank: a geometry imposed on the green bayou

with tangles of blue hyacinth on the water surface.

Pick no flower. It browns and brittles on the mantel.

Dive deep, but bring nothing back to the surface, find no audience.

The debris that blooms beneath the hammer of your anger

is only oyster grist: a swirl of laughter in the reeds.

The swamp is sticky silence stacking minutes in the cedar.

Intention is the drunk that dooms you.

Your wifi passwords are no good here.

Keith Fields is a native Texan who calls New Orleans home. His poetry has appeared in Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review and Los Angeles Press. By day, he is a technical writer at a conveyor belt company.