1: ON A BONE
In the swimmer eye of the lifeguard who dreams of faraway
a little rain lies on the sand the seaweed line inscribed by the water
from salt to ceiling the clouds play at shaping the continents
adrift on his chair while others whizz by on the beach
to stay in the shade with his referee’s body
he tallies up everyone’s points—will he know who I scrawl
at the edge of my towel falling out of said bounds with my finger
if for faulty legs I hit a bone in the road that’s got nil to do with you?
2: ON A STEP
Comes from what contrary to received ideas eagles climb
way high the interval: from Aeschylus to me (the mixup involves the head
and rocks) the careening cryptodire goes through the mind unfairly
in the end however there’s not but one step we gauge on the beach
I’ve been talking about by my body intact—which seems to raise
doubts in jellyfish form—by a sound so dully muffled
my tortoise makes upon crashing down by the flies
that bug vacationers duped by so much ado about little remains (to be seen).
3: ON YOUR BACK
You plug the door of your cave with a bit of brains
and with contentment we imagine ideas penetrate
more deeply in you than in us—the depth depends on the time
his mother never kept track of—blindly we’ll say what we want
on the spot on your back we’d dig extremely well a well
to throw an eye into lit from inside we’d rediscover the key
to a knowledge lost without our really realizing
what we’d see in there is love (even if that had nothing to do with it).
4: ON THE BUG
But after infancy so many names from Sylv and Georg to Paul plus -ette
served at random leaves of lettuce we keep our little mouth shut
time stops perhaps to better start over your breath
mingles weirdly with mine—I’d like to see your face—
everything is inversely fragile from you: the nail that itches the eye
that watches the tiny bug that inches up as beaches empty out
ants invade my arm and paradoxically I freeze
the scene in the fixer to force it to circulate (there’s nothing to see).
5: ON THE WORK
The one who trimmed your lashes c’mon hey knew a bit
about his work provided we honor the figure
eights we make the round ensemble turn (so where to focus the eyes
if not at the turn of each ray?) do you see human beings better now?
in the widest wide angle not that I know of but I’ll kill
the first who says different to the little kid I’m beguiling
his feet in the water I can if I want bestow my regard as a gift—
he’d see smoke you’d still get that that did not have naught to do with it.
6: ON THE MUSHROOM
It’s the dream moment for sending the pneumatic
inner tube vibe into the wall gunning my mushroom
throttle of a turtle I groove with the moves fakir Nefertiti wolf hup
-doggie good boy on the dash I bobble contra dance glide
I hot diggity dog in my flying slowmo saucer surfing the sea
of sand I leave castles in the dust but just inanely hit the p
in parasol that scrunches the bellows flat: lozenge of me
under bell of shell—there’s not a lot left here to see.
7: ON THE THUMB
On my knees to rock out on the back of your slope I slip
you’re a single shingle shy of a waterproof roof: sliding the others
around with my thumb on grounds that appear to me gradually
more and more flimsy re the truth I press on trying to clarify
the staunchly blue deal of the tiles of your dome
at each new puzzle arrangement the firmament wins
more matte to its tone plays the pretty pretty pitiless and the mystery
of your assembly grows without my having more to say on that score.
8: ON THE TONGUE
Despite the buxom is-the-sky-blue bosom perfume that turns
the head extending pops up atop a periscope across the wow
the prow pulls away from the shore—here imagine hands
or a stack of hardback terps going burp!—plunging into despair
I redouble my radar rotor—I saw nothing coming but worlds
engulfed already bubbling in my deep sea Diver Dan attire—I inhale
my very last lungful—you as well I’ll miss all of you too—
how breathtaking it is—with the tongue it’s no longer got whatsoever to do.