SEA BREEZE Part One

                                                          for Tamas in Brooklyn
1.
Luxurious antidotes,
                                                phasellus ille,
the sea
                   you
mean to float on is
                                                                coterminous
with her affections
                                          (Coney Island, minuit)
midnight, I see it already, the car
she’s driving
                             down
Ocean,
the stately Jewish houses,
                                                          then shining
boardwalk full of maybes
and far away the curl of moonlight
on the tenth-night wave
                                                   cresting way out there
the way they do,
                                      where
sharks calve and play,
happy hunting, lover,
                                                the
stick-shift
never felt so good, staggered green lights,
a car knows how to go,

GRAVITY FEED Part Seventeen (final section)

17.
But Hammerklavier
is what he wrote
music defined by its instrument,
the womb that bore it
brass and wood and steel
as if I were to call these words
men or women walking in a peculiar land
because you are my music too
I heard you with my hands.
FIN

GRAVITY FEED Part Sixteen

16.
And down it sinks
the thing you mean—
no names please
we’re all lovers here—
don’t you think pronouns are beside the point?

GRAVITY FEED Part Fifteen

15.
Not sure how to spell that
would you repeat please
(engine running driver asleep
hedgerows full of gorse and fuchsia
how the rain brings the blossoms on)
not sure if it was wheel or wither
was it wheat or west or mill,
truckload of apples, Avalon?
Are you sure? 
Does it bite?
Take off your house and wear the sky,
I know you’re shy,
keep talking fast, they won’t see your eyes.

GRAVITY FEED Part Fourteen

14.
So something has changed—
the wave curled in at Brighton Beach
minutes after Rockaway—
we intercept our fates
traveling perpendicular
between Jupiter —that tyro star—
and where we are.
A line of fate
runs down the palm—
my head anyhow is full of Gypsies,
I am the tower of Babel
I am in heaven
you are angels
staggering around—
or is fate somehow
different from what happens?
A secret elsewhere buried deep in here?