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sandy rooms


the shower
in the
sandy public changing

is too
cold now
to stand wholly

so I stand
back from the
shower head and
deflect water
off the open palms

and dart
in and out of the
white burn

ball-sacks, bum hole
between toes,
horse firm
the burn! the brilliant

cold draws
out the heat!

and then
with pale, rose-like
bunches of toilet
paper, I pat-dry

and the calm coldness
of the real
in a presence of humming
agitated skin

is a beautiful
of transition
through permanence.


we are—
and I
start from there:

only as a book is
really here,

unread, unopened,
our content undivulged,

the form you are

the cover
to the undiscovered
the keeper

of the notes you
do not sing while

singing f#
toning aum
a fluctuating B;

thinking thus
and feeling so
are wood-chips
of a thought

from what is Tree.


water, winter
a month off;
the facility

juts out
on poles
3/4 on beach sand
and the piles

the swell
and boom
of wave crash

I am tight over
the bones
shrunken penis
is activated

in a soapy hold
that will
power the tower
of my form

I cannot hold
you or be held
beyond the point,
that is

not the purpose
of you, I am
held touched
remotely, for warmth

and the sensation the
procreative urge
it has charged

my thighs and mind
and pegging
socks to the outside

of the backpack
I enter the sandy
harbour below

landing aircraft howling
governed portions
of their power across
the mustard and teal

coloured wave roll
of the capital ocean,
and the one surfer

in full rubber
crouched low. It is an ecstasy
relevant to the peace
of nations.




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