My hair tapping the glass aquarium of my sunglasses I am a lobster tank to scare and delight children’s hands we are all together at the seashore for dinner my hair is children with seven hands of hair and forty nine fingers of hair and lobster whiskers it’s a lie the children tapping the glass does not give me a headache the highway is sunny and empty I am a lonely lobster in a tank in a doctor’s office.
Two chinese mothers walking in a rock creek park hands clasped for walking masks and wrapped glasses color coordinated one in pink gloves the other in pink leggings.
I don’t have any idea what they are saying and if I did then you wouldn’t be able to peel the separate things away like clothes the trees the leaves the sky the park the whole curtain and rod of 2:15 PM in late march that lets them go beyond.
They are going beyond into a black peaceful vacuum where they will continue to walk and clasp hands behinds their backs and wear pink accents against a black background of space.
Wonder Bread Moon
She is the only person I knew that could spread cold butter over wonder bread without tearing it, and she does not love me anymore.
Swimming under the lanes in the pool that are train tracks. Rowing across an older film. The train depot is in between. Deep and shallow. Young and old. Work and play. Is this too obvious inside the pool? Then it is twenty times more obvious walking past the fences twenty years later in winter when the pool is covered in film stock. The public pool is a tableau film of the sphinx’s riddle to man, of man. A bald man kissed for too long, violated his age, his role in the tableau of the pool.
And how still the pool becomes for fifteen minutes every hour, as the tableau expands into the showers and the grass and eventually bicycles.