45*21

There's a rambling mode
we pine for in the back of our minds
but laden us with everyday woe
I jump both feet over the white picket
Am I the white rabbit or the black doctor
mosquito nets blanket the town
The elderly lady hunched over in a C
walks by me, her name is 4 Spanish words
One was rose and one was the sun, helio
We woke from deep slumber on the beach
as the fog rolled in as stiff as egg whites
Someone had started a fire and their shadows stretched
black through a sheath of white linen
I smell the brine and think of wine
A glass in the morning
I toast the sun as it burns off the fog
Walk along and look for horse crab shells
Instead, I find a woman's bra
Then take a swim in water so cold
You are something like a cadaver
The mind reaches its tentacles deep between your toes