We are but alcoves of the sea,
sharing seashell fears with the cry of gulls,
parting wind with the coronach in dawn.
And we see with seashell eyes,
fearful eyes,
tossing in the pilgrim-white flame of waves
without a floor to ground us from below-
though we call out with floating throats
the scratch of our helpless song, bobbing in the crowd.
This sea, of course, is naught but streets,
crossing like split veins in the sleeping legs of suburbs.
We are the imperfect Marx:
watching seashell dreams drift like flaking passion
into space between parallel hedges and white-picket chains.
Our little seashell cars sit waiting in the cream banks,
crossing not the currents that sprawl like a threat across the sea,
beneath the waves that guide our seashell hides
to life and daytime ridges-
frigid waves pulling and pulling our bones from bones...
though we stay in our white familiarity,
stuck in the treading green, surrounding
brackish depth, ballooning like thoughts suppressed
and gored like barnacles on our backs
from just standing in our seashell feet
on the groundless tide we dare not yen for.
So floating... floating...