the roseate blush above the
dazzled Oakland window-fires. nothing
less real, actually; a thin taupe strip of bay
lay before the beach, its land.
forefront, the tail of an island.
more fore, a boat, camouflaged,
white. I’m not wearing my glasses
or it’d all be more there. every thing
whizzes by like surface, depthless poetry, but some things,
like background, distract. twist my head into my stomach
debating sex vs. love. note Blake’s London,
his “mind-forg’d manacles” could be the haze of the
chiarascuro’d bay. Rimbaud is in Africa –
a yellow streak across the page.
