You have pretty eyes; your face is the
rust on the side of a lost freighter
and the first mate is jumping overboard.
You’ve got your sealegs now, your bedlegs I mean
know the roll and splash of waterbeds
but regular beds too, even futons
like discount Korean yachts. This air always
does this to me, the salt wind anchors
in my throat and the peach lights
above the sidewalks moan as we leave the bar,
hum, I mean, like the day janitor
tomorrow who’ll mop the drinks
you’ve spilled; who’ll nuzzle the lipstick
you’ve smeared all over the payphone.