These say to me youse, summer beach chairs open on Friday evening holding forth with little change

“Bring me a pitcher of water. How many loves and who or how many animals shall live before I finish my pack of cigarettes,

And how many will wash themselves in the sink?” Overtly, the car driver brings out pin the tail on the donkey or sing this tune if you know it jackass: I’ve got trout, I’ve got three alphabets,

And so the door opens. Wider. You have a candelabra. O hello, you must be Teddy Roosevelt of on the radar range.

But I don’t want to climb the stairs and rescue anyone from the burning house mommy!

I want to spend the afternoon in an overheated car pulling a bear claw off my bare leg and drive somewheres without flies or gnats.

The milkmaid brings in a black olive. She writes on the blackboard in spats.

I have the requisite passion for making every house’s ghostly mailbox homey.

We all loved your memo. The lovers dance among the falling shells;

Their arms blown off, they embrace. Every band member but the violinist has died.

The engineer’s widow hid at the station house, counting bombs’ whistles from inside.

Criminals! or are you foresters, wardens? They fall down and don’t arise. The sea is full of pearls, the shoreline smells

Like me. Isn’t it true that the sun is set on automatic?

O my beautiful white one, o my war-torn cold Atlantic.