at the beach, punched by sun& the vinegar pair of your own sweat& salt particulate to water(you wear it so well though,forearms dark & sun-flush)—he's a princesson the boardwalk, in faded Adidas sneakers& a pale, small neck tattoo& a thin mustache still wildly erotic— but he's not the one you're after (or I'mafter) because we're after each other& the wind is at our backs, as they say(& they do say, don't they?)so we enter a kingdom of perfect happinessexisting on a mottled horizon with blue-white& sand & gulling about& our bodies known to each otherport wind against our bare backsbut then punctuated with driving back& a lone moon pushing aside the clouds& entering the road to chasm itwith an ambulance now washingout nightshadow in its red & white & red& white & red on the other side of the road
Jonathan Owen May (Sat,) studied this question.