oh coastland Tropicalia…
loose eyes are helpless.
I hold them with my eyes closed.
Closed by your clinging arms
like jungle vines,
my mouth filled with whatever
you call me, you drive
your jeep swaying
with our friends like wedding canopies
headed to the sea.
Left over microwaves are in the skirts
of the Manhattan girls.
The glass was dropped with ice,
dimpled with flossing ice and gin.
Hills leap at their untilled skin.
A morsel of advice:
his drink and your crushed body
beneath the music
leaves a habit dry, nerves for good.
Rented rooms fueled
with birdseed, with grains
of sun. Their text messages
could have been our text messages.
They culminate in doors, in depth interviews,
and your pregnant aphorisms that began
more often when I left.
The cosmos rubbed the mother
and father of fat,
eden, age, against my sheaths
of hair, shampoos me with its suds,
all over, rinses, yields
me, your woman, fresh words,
tongue, upon your trembling, twining, fingers.
Speak your mind.
What the Heavens can make you’ll see.