when you draped that houndstooth bikini on
the shower curtain rod, and I found it
wet with salt, I thought of our god, the sun.
I slid it over as I entered the
pressed splash that sprays so strongly and so taut;
pink and blue and clear and red and I feel,
and maybe you feel this way too perhaps,
upon a lay beside the summer surf —
like this warm flash light that needs batteries,
and that fluff from the towel clumsily
romances your spine, and the gleam off your
silhouette you slink steady like a robe
made of halo that is banana-spanked,
inhaled, exhaled, tasted, tasteless, toxic
and thin.