The Caspian Sea

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.

Boundary Theory 3

The diagram is failing for
a lack of understanding given by

screws stripped,
seating after market components underneath.

Complete the diagram
on your own and I will not

dive too far
with butcher hands and a taste for motor oil.

Boundary Theory 2

This is my field.  There are many like it, but this one is mine.
Without me, my horse is nothing.  Without my horse,
my field grows toward disrepair.

Severance pay or something like it
nearly as thrilling.  Near the thrill that builds
when fingertips slip across the tips of blades of grass
skipping airfoil against cold dew and night black
droplets of blood cooler to the touch than its ever been
before Winter stole contrast out of the ground's heart.