The remarkable undulating hunt-lights of Japanese sting-jellies,
whose beige vein-membranes glimmer as the patina
of a vampire’s salve on a bee-stung labial lip
behave such as vague swimmers—zombie-safes—
sluggish from a century of patience, and the dream of satiety.
Casting wants character-actors at a cocktail lounge.
These horny chandeliers, snail-antennae reeling in champagne,
move forward like sharks after a foaming nutritional purse,
cinéma vérité, Imagination’s picture show.
How deep is the ocean? Where does the corner
of my mind meet the false dilemma? Oily canister,
stormlight flicker! I don’t trust you; then, I do.
He was mounted higher than most, it seemed, on that rackety-bike,
driving it through the park with two big dogs on rope, sporting
secret manly woodsman’s baggage, a headdress reminiscent
of a dark Plains Chief’s feather mitre.
I got caught up in the lilt on ...