Contraction is a frightened fish, taking in the light from this pale beach,
a brush of the palm tree against my face from home;
from home, I smell the salt in your hair.
from home, I see the scales of your face glitter in the afternoon sun as you peel
away the velvet skin I adored.
Love gives brief relief, I have learned,
because now I do not know you.

This bench, this yellow beach.
A seagull says he is sorry through a crack on the pier,
the fish drift swiftly underneath my feet,
And I watch you touch her long brown hair,
and I watch you drowning under the stupidity of it all,
between the unjustified heat of July and the
calmness of the dead and forgotten harbor.

Speak of porcelain flowers; those understood by few.
They bleed nectar in the night
--the sleeping stems from the petal's torso--
like a kaleidoscope portrays images,
divine and bright; those understood by few.

Take this soil; its hazy grains,
breeding fragile life
(without the problem of this age)
resting upon itself; the martyr's bloom
They found pollen in the children's room.