I looked you up in the shallow water dictionary. It said
black and blue, said
awkward scar, forget-me-not
noli me tangere
kind of thing.
Foam slaps the oar-locks. Spume drowns. A stained safety
orange, salt-stiffened gloves for example, or starting
the car with a screwdriver fixed in ignition. That can be yours; I’ll
use episode, as
when the girl enters the fête in her novel, in muslin, her premodern
shift. Match-head flame in the orchid, core roseate
with big voltage. Urge—further it. We feel shy,
as if breathless were cozy. Now this alcohol
sting of the mind, I can’t read, as on marshland the windows
are oozing, not solid but slow-moving
gel. Did you know glass is permanent liquid? So stand here
a temblor, see outer: quilts, pots, dust, excitement. And inner:
depends. Parts bulbed and fructified, furred
bow in rattling orchestra.
A soughing thing fattened
and bullied by boring wind. Want that, want laugh and
burns in the orchard, stripped edges. Soothe, you flare.