Making myself, and burning bone
to cast china cups, drinking the
tea for the love of it.
Scrawling messages in pale clay for under-
neath the mulch of leaves.
Even if it’s only I who will
read my future at the end of it.
(Thanks to the Ben Zabbia Band for inspiration.)
* * * * *
Keeping half an eye under the rain,
foolishly hidden in the pool water.
Peeking over the surface,
the drops of the heavy cloud
bounce, graph-points, as if in a title feature
of a Bond film. Though instead of gun smoke,
not girls either, I imagine swimmer-
boys reaching out in synchronicity.
Each falls upon my back as I
perform another stroke.