the waves break in three

i. try a little dumbness

a flipper with a creaky wheelbarrow
can, seasick, carry so little else:
even numbers hoist a tragic burden

of twos and fours and sixes-
an orange drum of oozing crude
squats in the public square of red proof:
normal schooling has not reached the riddle of three-
perfect odd breeds the pod of mathematical glee:

this is the first wave, barely asking questions,

feckless breakers born of slim perception.

ii. then came the silly thumping

a hairless mammal born of aqua water
smooches to a groove of lonely warehouse
propped on stilts of rust and gray,
scratching a riff devoid of moisture,
in a turn-table suit striped with pockets-
fine this crime that outlives ethics:

this is the second wave, rising into rhythm,
a changeling child of chilly waters.

iii. trump is the beginning of cool

a vest of stuffed squid and shrimp is stylish
for most of the downstream fossils:
these slick boardwalks in the fresh of splintered rain
where triple pops are collar cool in pink and green
for the culture of the never-ending grope and move:
it's never too slim for a flippered slipping-
grand this sand to a fine-toothed beach:

this is the third wave, darkling by nature,

a cunning crash of foam and spray.