Parched

When I wake in the back seat to a dim teal
on the leatherette, my legs seem to swell
like Grow-in-Water sponge pills. They wet the boat's guard-rail

with their SPF 80 glaze, and their toes touch the kelp ends
that lay flat on the surface. The chafes
from the flashlight rods that leaked last night
into the spots not calked by the blackout curtains
are dry. The seats are rooted to the floor, are pillars
that loom in the morning sheen.


(the kelp ends peak from the surface in youth, but as I age they surround me. I seem to have submerged and drowned, but in dryness, who would have thought death would have been so dry)

damp for

the root

of sweat, we wait for an

intersect of thought like

a cosmic sea-monkey cyst

for hyperbolic brine, settle on

vacuum dust, amniotic juice

has yet to fill the gap between

us and the chaps

pinch the nerves each

time lips splay

to show that

we are

Surface tension

The romance that two
plump boy scouts push
and inhale through harmonica
reeds is well worth noticing,

lines are gaps
into unease when
on a Duchamp,

and it is well worth noticing
such a droplet in that split
moment of surface tension

when it balances
atop