Upon runes of sandstone scratched by gnats,
unrubbed and legible through a rubber sole
the squealed aria of high pitched muddy traffic,
It's always by the shoreline
that these dreams twist and turn.
where byssal threads of mussels cling nearby
and sing the opera of a soupy sloshing tide
and the primordial blunging of man and water,
caught by fear only half-remembered in fear,
where brazier toes were orange embered
in the burning embroidery of a cast iron grate.
As I reached for the white skirt
at midnight it seemed to come alive,
flouncing scarlet and rusty frills
with dental and gnashing intent.
barely noticed in the trills and wash of tide and song,
the flutter of the shadow of the tissue that cleanses:
I heard urges at which you feigned surprise,
though it was only the burnished lead
of a bass line thudding the spirit
that thundered in the night.
there's never none of these demure boys
that comes to any proof.