But um,

the light changed,

                                        her thigh beside you

safe beyond the crevasse of machinery,

her thigh you imagine beside you,

imagine. 
Desire

is like a windshield wiper,

                                                          comes
and goes,

obliterates

                             all
that it has seen,

swipes clean. 
You have seen

nothing.

                   No
image left.

5.

So the sea was natural enough

to come to

                       in its way—

phasellus

                      a yacht or little sailboat,

by Catullus, young poet frequently marvelous.

Sail away with me she said you thought.

The grammar of analytic languages

perplexes with contingency.

                                                              Who said?

Who thought?

                                We were speaking

we were young,

                                      speaking
something

like Chinese in Coney Island.

Or was it Brighton Beach.

                                                          Or
was it raining.