The sea makes me weird.
The sea so rough
and ancient.
Rough as night falls
and I feel something
sea-like
in my blood,
salt,
all the forgotten modes of ancient love,
the waterlogged sailors beautiful
and benumbed
in their flawless chambers.
I am asleep, out of doors—
the ruined beach below, the rough sea ahead,
Africa in the distance.
I’m asleep and I’m everywhere
I’ve wanted to be.
My dreams hold
perpetual exhibitions on
the history of the male nude.
My waking life spent
wishing I were old.
Dread inside me like the hot core
of earth, erupting.
The city entombed
by pumice and ash,
all the people’s lungs and throats burning
as they flee—
and the quiet, shimmering picture of their lives
preserved.
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