The miikfaced man stares at ocean' foam
thinking, saliva: repulsed.
The wind itches his embarrassing places
under gulls colicky as newborns.
Vaguely needing a urinal,
he ruminates bluely on the
confluence of ketchup and blood
recalls dreaming a filbert-sized
kitten called Lucian, precious
and persistently missing.
Cats have always made him feel safe
for a second.
He considers the Latin, “lux,”attempting
interpretation, but is too distracted by
pangs of deteriorating bridgework.
The melba toast woman wears her usual face,
a continuum spanning salt and stone
fantasizes falling into something good
like a vat of chocolate mousse, or mushroom fettuccine
or a disinterested coworkers throat.
She smiles inward, wicked, over the sanctity of skulls.
They've come to the water to be lost for a month
but in the anticipation of anonymity
forgot and packed the other.
So they stride under crying gulls with calliope thoughts
the tide approaching and receding like an undecided hairline
managing their limbs like mannequins.
Of course they ponder the ocean's promise
but worry over the lassitude of sharks.
Reluctant, the sky spills out its wines.
The moon rises, a severed head.
One day in June it was, love separated easy
like an egg,
between cigarettes nine and ten
or the crossing of a leg.
The man admires the blunt ugliness of jellyfish
feels disturbingly human
the woman leans over ripples of knees,
plucks a shell with robotic glee
The ocean will shudder the shore all night
ecstasy on ecstasy.
Do octupi sleep, wonders the man,
pondering restless legs times four.
Her mind is sand, blank as time.
Warm lights beckon in the rooms ahead
which they haplessly hope to reach
before the swallowing surge
epilepsies of of heat lightning
punctuate the noosed moon.
The air has a certain estrogenic smoothness
overly-pregnant with stillbirth.
Copyright Julianza Shavin 09 08