Down in the channel the tide inhales and
seaflowers fixed ‘gainst the suck and swirling
rush, wave frantic at tenant fish tripping.
Blue jets out of their tiny heads smile and
are vacuumed up, diced by razor jaws to
end in bits, an eye, a bladder stinking
on the sand where we, hands idly swinging,
stroll. I kiss the salt from your fingers and—

distracted by this other bright ocean,
over and over acacias in flight
lay down their hair, beating on the glass.
Sealed in the room my contemplation
is of pleasures fast fading—you bite my ear
—and flowers beating on the glass.


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