Under the Volcano (darkslide to pop-shuvit)

Something about the late afternoon breeze

takes me back but I’m still here

              hosing down a westsuit in the backyard
or cooking tortillas on the pavement
                              when I ought to be drifting
                                                like a beer can on the tide
              donating my sunglasses
                                                                to science

& whatever else the wet sand opens up & swallows

              & the chrome grillwork of the summertime sun
like the consolation prize that got
                                                lost in the mail
as I guess one more dented fender of surf
more or less
                              tucked away in a corner of my brain
along with the phone numbers & names
                                                whispered in the rattling palm
leaves like a haiku
              with a hacksaw in it

& what is your piety compared to my deference
              when my wheels lock up on the wall of the
snake run & the sky tips back
                              & everything you thought you knew
is gone