this shower curtain doesn't know
my striped fish � it wears dots in mauve and moues �
still it moves, making mouths������cold water
in a hot room / the tide comes in alive
over low ledges, a whale ready to surface /
our house, ours, steps up

������������������������������������between bearded
rocks, wharf pilings and boat masts, our pad steps
past telephone poles����������we've paid in cowrie shells
for Entemann's sweet-cheese coffee cakes
and a home this night � in the morning
brooms will rustle like crickets
over forgotten crumbs

she was once a freckled palomino, duende
in her throat��������he waved windmill arms
at spinning waters

��������������������������������the way we feel
in front of a painting of Vermeer, Van Gogh or Klee
and the bond again when we pool our pennies
to buy a pitcher of sangria filled with citrus
and melon - this is ours, these drinks
bright and smart as talk above
parasol shadows


� 2004 by PJ Nights