That
haze of blue sunlight might have
chipped
the tooth of some god
or
seagull
but it doesn’t keep me from
skipping like a broken needle
beneath palm trees swaying to a tune I can’t
hear
(there’s sand in my ear & a million
reasons
the
air was seasoned with salt-
mist & car exhaust & your heart
was like a trampoline…)
I said I’m looking at the sky
as though it’s a homemade television set
balanced precariously on a lost horizon
curving soft & rounded like your bare
shoulders
tumbling in a cement mixer
&
I must enter again the cathedral of vaulted Pacific
steel buttressed
w/seaweed
&
foam
if only to reap the
questionable karma
echoing in an empty 24 oz. Tecate can
smeared with lipstick
