Tossed on the rocks, next to
a tunnel of mirrors . . .
still, shiny, shiny
hairdo on her like an "Act of God"
followed by eggs and juice out on "the waterfront"
I did get to
the end of it all
and her bowdlerized spider . . .
you'd think the universe revolved around the gaffer
that whole drunken
thing with the abs
and his Richard Simmons-in-a-trailer-park sense of the mise en scene
the poppy-seed panties
and the seagull with its frozen wings
the beak open and gold in the hushed black water
I couldn't get the smell of alewives out of the blankets
or my fake British accent
Waves like foothills froze under the stars
Pontaluna Road and no license
In the morning vultures were circling the dunes
The coffee tasted like mud
and a rusty can opener