Baked, and ill-nurtured as if lured from the present to the past.
caviar and lentils, strawberries and bread curds,
the beach is left the way it is intended to be.
No roads, only poverty.
to the fecund swelter of the warm soaked sand.
We’ve gone fishing,
our fear of fish,
our fear of deep water,
decomposed, as if grieving from the lungs,
giving barefoot birth to the butterfly weeds on the banks…
and everything is gorgeous through a rose coloured lens
for the moment.
I wonder what kind of life suits me,
if there will be children,
I know there will be thorns,
if there will be return.
eats well, drinks well,
my love paints me as the classic shape,
big body, big dreams.
And the dream child who is also soaked in the froth of the sea,
swarms like brownish bees to the fruit.
There is nothing more beautiful than this rain.
than her hair in the rain.
I am troubled by the familiarity of the pleasure,
yet all I can remember is the eggshell lace of her slip…
The ocean became faintly the murmur of pigeons. A beautiful, intricate death in the thick sound.
I roam with the pigeons, with the seagulls, rather,
on the shore of haute bohême
with the cowboy,
with the Man About Town,
with the dream child in her thick and tangled thorns,
the throngs of the euphoric red in the tide.
oh, restless soul, ponder and haunt.
I looked at her,
from afar, from a blue balcony,
and she looked so beautiful-
spread out on the picnic table.