Open Re­la­tion­ship with the Ocean


A pin­hole projects the moon top­ping the sun onto Por­tia’s palm she holds the so­lar eclipse as it holds Mon­day still we swim naked for five hours in the ocean with­out sun­screen bare-handed in­ti­macy with a hun­gry tide my skin’s al­ready burnt when you men­tion boil­ing all the cocks be­fore com­ing home

I am a bell that won’t stop ring­ing un­til you dampen me with fists a week later un­der the heat wave’s smoky pink eye

I line you up against the fence and spray you with cold wa­ter my hand clos­ing over the gar­den hose’s mouth

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