Down in the channel the tide inhales and
seaflowers fixed in the surge and swirling
rush wave frantic at tenant fish tripping.
Electric jets out of their heads on boogaloo
are sucked down darker maws. Diced by razor jaws
they end in bits, an eye, a bladder stinking
on the sand where we, hands idly swinging,
still linger. I suck salt from your fingers and —
— side-tracked by an ocean of air and rain
over and over acacias in the storm
beat bright flowers at the window pane.
Tho sealed in the room I’m distracted more
by pleasures fast fading (you bite my ear)
than some panic of flowers at the window pane.
Image: Photo by Scott Webb on Unsplash
And if you’ve ever wondered what boogaloo is, here’s the inimitable C.W. Stoneking to explain.