The gray bone sky is the fluke
of the whale in the distance.
Later, when I measured detergent,
the past became irrevocable.
Also, green-bullet grass chopped
up the lawn mower, cut a stone
When we betray our own interests, do we
not admit to an inherent loneliness?
Why did Samson lose Delilah?
Merely because of a casket of silver pieces?
Still, all day I was at sea, fully
apart from several parts of myself.
I could have stopped
looking, but didn't. Could have
stopped, and did.
Distracted, held up my hands,
considered again. To
approach a leviathan.
Like the psyche, who clings
to the corset of our ribs and to our
Or as some words are often
confused with each other–
breath, breathe, then, than.
I could not begin without asking
myself one-seventh of a question:
If love, whether holy or corporeal,
romantic or erotic, may be said
to be in our own interests at all.
Entire epochs have depended
upon a ready answer.
All day yesterday, I ate olives, rode
waves, swallowed brine.
Then a quicksilver thrill, a flash
of breath, forehead hot.
Among my accoutrements, I find
a shoehorn, a red construction
paper heart, the shell
of a conch.