All my exes wish they lived by the ocean.
We wear boots on the firm sand as you
blend in, lack of color,
blue and gray liquid revolving,
I think maybe I could live here too
for a while. I smile as our dreams lace
like red crabs on the seafloor, we are lacing
undetected by light, scurrying across oceans-
Baja California, farther South now to
Panama. I am searching for your
flaws in my magnifying glass, revolving
optical clarity, tiny squares in search of color.
It is revealed to me in a flood of carnation, spectacles color
my list of pros and cons, I find I am wearing bright lace
under all this density of choice. We resolve
to bring our drinks out on the ocean.
My submarine eyes cannot stop examining you,
scarlet invertebrate, we too,
are juvenile, abundance of enthusiasm, we too
must eventually settle into a melting pot of color.
This new southern extreme aggregated by you
pulling at my ends like lace
strands, swarming in heat, an El Niño in my oceans
our moons and tides revolve,
your whiskey and smoke revolves
around our ecosystem. Some vital point depends on the two
of us upwelling from the bottom of the ocean
floor, our faces drained of color,
where spotlights blind us near the seamount, me laced
in patchworked fragments of you.
This phenomenon is not new to you,
who dreams in waves of rolling
hypnic jerks. A sleep paralysis of cola laced
bursts of bourbon on your tongue, I too
am not innocent in all this amnesia of color,
the tail-end of a successful recruitment in our ocean.
You, washed up on a San Diego beach, and I was there too,
revolving amid clouds of sediment, another anomaly of color,
Our spiked legs laced in bitterness, no longer submerged in a sheen.