Light coming in the color of ocean, through
the window, through the crossed panes,
onto the tile floor scattered with
shapeless mounds of cloth. The two
beds, low and narrow, one empty.
The silence. Not a bird or insect.
The distant rocking of boats
at the marina. A sense of desiccated,
exhausted peace over the house. An interlude
of rest before drama and trouble
resume with the waking hours.
Insane drunkenness. Leering and collapsing
on the sparse, dry lawn. Staggering inside,
the dreaded onset of sobriety and
a return to those depressed senses
being escaped. That entire wooden sensibility.
Hoping only to ride out the next few days,
never taking stock of what
alternate lives have been lost.
I am stuffed with visions of your body,
contorted, grappling, hot with sweat
and tucked in the loose forms of love.
Our perversity at the seashore
was a monstrous business.
The grass, the towels, the lion’s
appetite, the vulgar tapping
of incoming tides nuzzling the rocks.
Drowning like a shell,
spinning whitely down until the sand shuffles
up and buries it. This is my line.