Was not me who rolled the rock from the front of your dream.
But just before the sea continues out with my silt,
a pebble did peer there spat out by a cormorant, accepted by sea-bass
that might have been jiggling roughly in my hand watching the fireworks
and the full velvet moon, too square for my mind's suitcase,
thinking about the animal i did not kill but ate
and the kind of life it led before it landed on my plate,
and the woman i don't know who got held up at gunpoint
and how i'd feel after that. The South-Easter spits back the rockets
they spill across the crooked beach, the waves
slick and foreboding straight out of Hollywood,
my favorite philosopher is dead, homesick for my books,
and my boots, feeling full, squeamish, on-edge, endless.

11/05/2006

Posted on 11/06/2006
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