Waking up on the
bottom of a swimming
pool just in
time to take a little siesta
if it wasn’t for
the thunder of your eyelashes
fluttering
& the fierce undertow at low tide
stepping off the
sunny side of your gondola
onto concrete
damaged like Mike Tyson
or me
w/a
bloody nose & a greasy blonde
beneath a sky melting
like a box of crayons
in the Painted
Desert
That’s what made
surfing The Cage so tasty
back in the day
The resurgent blue cut with foam
could be your
formal invitation to
death by
drowning
& it would be just like
dying of thirst in
a monsoon
riding in on the
shattered chrome drainage
of a single tear
