I hate being awake. Both flip flops gone.
The coast of the Point is
nothing compared
to the coast of Chicago. The glitter
however, is reel
in ways
the sound of an empty water bottle
clip clopping down the face of concrete
erosion proofed blunt pointed jack stars
sounds the same in every
last night was worth every minute of
staring at the sun,
high nooned and nothing gun played,
but the saloon was exactly what I needed.
I hate being awake without flip flops,
pulling rocks
beneath my towel
to make a pillow while I pretend to read beside you
leafing through some cultural touch stone
I should have read years ago
sunbathing and instead dream
about what your hand beside my thigh
inches far
would feel like if the sun
above us,
was instead
above the Caspian sea and
the stones beneath us a home at her feet.
How hard would the clouds scream by?
How fast would time rip itself apart
into flecks of glass slip feathered streaks of
"The weather is warm today."
I know.
