People are pressing their faces and noses
against our windows. The beach is a cloud.
It’s full of bodies like a pair of pants.
I’ve misplaced my keys and your clean fingers.
Sarah says it’s not going to rain and the beach fills
with wet smoke. The pier is too hot to walk on
without losing my feet. At dusk, a pillowing oasis of blued sand
flutters like a small house knocked over by wind;
I am that house, and in every room is a beautiful girl
with your name. I am kissing frogs hoping they stay frogs.
I am a strawberry. I am trying to be the sweetest strawberry.
Once I was told a story about a woman who spent
her whole marriage looking into other people’s windows.
I think I am that woman. The visible and invisible
are not enemies, or opposites, but things that need
each other. It’s not raining until it’s raining.
Long after the beach has gone cold like food
left out, I want still to write only of desire, or of its
possibility, or of its absence, which is brighter
than its presence, in the way absences merely elucidate
necessity we’d likely already known. I want still to write
only of the crabs that root themselves like adjectives
in the sentence of the sand, of the frogs that don’t distinguish
between screaming and singing and talking, they are just
making noise into the velvet-hot night,
and if we cannot agree that that, too, is all we are
doing, then may mercy be given to us.