of sea is a taste wept too daily,
too depleted by freedom’s rupture;
the eyes have other secrets to see
and deeper use for the detritus
within us: the bright effluvium
of ego dries up, mired as it is
in wealth, that remedial medium.
Blame it on fate, on beach memories–
pebble put in the pocket or shell
fragments; any memento carries
us as much as we it. Time capsule
contains every evening’s interval.
The ocean observes its own puddle.
All who defend me, all theWorld’s people I command toRoundabout me shield me, toFight off the enemy. TheTheory is if they all standBanded together and wall meSafe, there’s no one left toBe the enemy. Unless I ofCourse start attack, snap-Ping and shattering my handsOn your invincible backs.
past the point keys can jab: against all thrustmake safe-ensure your door’s core is held back,for reckless access to that pure centerquarks more quintessence than taking exitsfrom those pried voids whose secret quickly sates:ubiquitous if Space presses Enter.Which inadmissible sill still calls loudwith imagine: our skeleton keepingeach such portal neither open nor shut,unhoused of that…
under their lids, growing black.
rather than sewn them. Sans coat-fare,we proceed it seems only to precede;birth to burial, are not yet here.But when did we first start embracingthe wakes of ourselves in each other ratherthan each other? As the fruit fallsto hiatus us, its bloom spoiled by last year’s cores.Or the sun whose portrait rots in our pores,those sweatbeads…
but if it wore time, would it disappearisn’t visibility an effectof transvestism, that shield pastime whosecrosscasual aim unmasks the eye: must youassume the costume of the other tobe here, to present the sense with an ess. . .Narcissus saw his guise decked out all ruse,but if there were none, what would our true clothesconsist of,…
Git-up horsie she cries astride me asI crash sweetly onto the carpet.Boredom what an esthetic,cleansing the days-I laud the vintage of my toothpick.Small-husband to the floor,my foot stoops in dance,in courtship intervals.Putting their clothes on afterwardsthe lovers are surprisedat how emptythe buttonholes seem.
