Distant cousins or at least the ice cream shop did she involve herself, stooping down to examine the blue aggie?

Against her hip the blackness, the ocean rushing up to meet the city

And I turned the car around in the other direction. I didn’t want to wear the baker’s hat in this poem.

The blue, clear marble she’d forever found still sitting in the circle, never tapped

Always missed or often passed over, but what was rolling towards her, her mouth agog?

The sea, not the ocean no mistake was her caresser, not the brooks

Or well water brought up by some devil and mailed to her as the sea. The blue pirates the blue-green pirates

Enter the room alongside the ocean. A wind is here with music arrives with music

And several Frenchmen emerge from a submarine. It is because

Of the sea, how wide is the sea, and she rests against the kitchen counter.

She’s gone. Her luggage is gone, the gate awaits the next flight, free

But her mouth is still cold is still cold against the inside of my thigh or the rain is cold

And is it true that in the center of the aggie

Her breath is against my thigh as in the meadow again? Several days ago she joined the pirates, she slept below their

Luggage. She’s gone, a letter from their corsair informs me so.

The sound of your voice against my thigh enters the room. We step outside to have a smoke,

Or where a clear blue and we emerge from the swamps, joking,

Or where she whispers and the British navy arrives before April

Or in the full mouth the whole mouth behind the brandied

Her voice in the state room against my thigh and where her two feet stood, only smoke!

But before April, before both her feet and for days the pirates invaded

Or she drew maps, trade routes, shanties, kissed me behind the bookcase

And ruffians entered brandishing and behind them the columnists

Wielding broken bottles. What had she left behind? She’d had a box at the ballet

But the pirates came in on green feet and the bog was spilling quietly out from the fountain.

She, her, I noticed her feet. Then she and I and the judge boarded the train shown in this photograph.

I had already felt the East Wind on the insides of my thighs in India and in China,

So perhaps when the phone rang a second time the sound of her small voice as seen in this photograph

Or again at sea she had a voice like the tines of a silver fork

And I noticed that both her feet had already taken flight, were vanished, but still pleased me with their mysteries.