Anaconda arms, feeling her perimeter,
Navel music moaning
Through swan-feathered sheets,
As sweaty, musk-dripped oar, drifts to water.
A single sailor reaching out to the billowing brine,
The craftsmanship of paddle,
Drifting inch by inch, as they become
Like the wind-torn sail, muscled through destiny’s arms.
Humid portholes, sparkling
Like prismed lenses, the halite trails on her thighs,
And the saltiness of baby
Kisses, all tune, the radio frequency
Of a bygone music, that returns through the
Fogged seascape. It was as if, a million mosquitos settling,
And buzzing on a skin tapestry.
The salty mist floats on the body, like a sylph,
Little winglets, like miniature fans,
Blowing through keratin thickets.
He becomes the hymn of plucked lungs, smarting at
Every boney scaffold, and soft filament.
The oar stops his paddle, the witchcraft
Of the swelling waters, recoil.
There are salt caves, breaking away
From each other’s contact, stabilizing
Flesh into Lithium sculptures.
The radio stops. The anaconda arms, they slip
Out. Pangaea breaks apart, and moves
Towards the poles. The choreography
Turns to two topologies, drifting apart.
Cumulus clouds spring up on mental canvases.
Little spokes holding each memory together,
Like a bicycle wheel. You’re now a matrix of 8 limbs
Almost a gangly octopus,
And yet lips, they still swim across,
Sessile oscula pulsating like jellyfish,
Unveiling a home-schooled chemical opus,
That tributes its composition,
To contraband-smuggling mules
Quenching any debris of light.