Sergei

He irks the phone I could remove And touch the water. Man of what pebbles The government pours

To adorn concrete lapping waves Denote as slabbed beaches, Views of an island so recently Opened, no public generation has been.

Meeting the couple concrete Ends of the dock, the man Whose legs puncture water Is in it. His islands

Dictate their two-story summer homes To me, he says so, “Now they will be no one’s Till the rich buy them up again.”

These boundaries I OK. If the islands were everyone’s We couldn’t imagine them mine, As we know to, something equal

To the being in possession of it. While the sun is setting The islands look honest— Sullen lumps of sodden granite,

White as I think of them Turning to think of something else, To see if I can, if the man loves me. I know he’s been looking

And how I’m ashamed,