i. resistance is futile in the face of crushing surf
when the timely spray leers a proper twelve o'clock
my etched face always bends towards the salty ocean
with the upright satisfaction of a quiet sandy satyr:
greens smashed by the green smashed in another giddy decade,
rise now smoothly as the sandy glass of tide-ripped bottles.
when the sun gives rise to the alto sand of sea-grass spring,
we can only sniff for the pounding waves that make us gyrate so.
eyes uncontrollably rivet the shine of a clinging maillot,
the pulsing jade of amulet that is our cherished sea-glass.
was it the teal that made it so?
ii. when you bought a black return, the station master giggled
the end of blank expression is pregnant with the eternal possibility
of small font timetables blurred in the black wash of anxious tears:
all aboard! all aboard! were we going somewhere? oh yes. we were.
then you bring in the comfy chair to stroke the sweet coffined coif-
salty hams on flocked upholstery only enhance the coughing fetish:
suppressing laughter is always laughing most dryly choked
when narrowing and distracted eyelids are least able to wetly thrill.
we wandered the twisty dead-end hallways
until the musty death of twisty wanderings,
announced the twisty death of musty wanderings:
our hotel proudly served the scarlet pepper goulash
in cobalt china bowls that skittered from the sideboard
like mutant mice desperately trying to please the dead.
this was before your lungs gasped the closing air
that was rancid in the claustrophobia of the alcove,
before we grasped the smoky closing of a velvet door:
I did not know the dead could have such hair.
iii. insipid murmurs about the cycle of life
each atom of the acidic raindrop that plagues you now
was a salty teardrop crusting on Cleopatra's cheek
when she stared into the desert and wondered why she cared,
when she stared into the swirling dust with bitter eyes of kohl
waiting for the brute that never comes:
so much for the stamped and signed postcards from the forum.
enjoy, if you can, a prophetic mixture of soot and salt,
arriving in your waiting box with so much postage due.
iv. after the storm we noticed broccoli treetops
pearls that hang from evergreens:
if only the afternoon would glimmer
like it did that day in shimmering August
when the rooftops angled against the sparrows
and the fear of flight became a silver possibility
that commoditized a pitiless sun
with terracotta arcs of blissful sienna
near a violet gate open and cascading
with a formal flood of planned wisteria.
yes, yes, you were there and jangled too.
v. in that day we welcomed boredom
a painted tunnel devoid of butterflies
can only give a sprayed and painful birth
to the luscious graffiti of orange and pearl:
come, she said, come play with me.