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Careful
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It's Funny
It's funny how the charcoal makes the water clean,
soaking up the little bits of evil from the thing.
It's starting to make daylight：
the pinprick in my head and spine are faintly glowing.
It's starting to make sense now: the helices of Percoset and bits of mind.
I came out here with you because we both agree,
to wallow in the char and kelp is really to be free.
I'm happy that you're trying—
I'm happy that you brought the food that we will eat here.
The setup on the rock, the pathos flitting in the weave,
our seven-dollar tablecloth, it's periodic breathing:
I had never thought to come here;
I always hated outings till there were plans to go.
You brace your elbows in the sand
and I control my distant hands with puppeting skill.
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It's funny how your glassy eyes reflecting off the silver sky
could see anything worth making them work.
The plumb and vicious slip of skin, the cool abrasive lock:
my chin is tucked behind your shoulder.
I am breathing up the ground.
You are pretending not to notice that curt, halting, grunting sound.
I fake kissing you.
I fake noises someone else has maybe made.
I think hardly of when your father died.
The feeling of our cleaning up is something like a dream.
I float over the basket and start filling up the thing with honey and water,
with shit from the seagulls stowed away.
I claw and I drop things; I kick some blue animal, a stray.
I snap bits of wicker; I'd love to be glad we came.
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