When these evening faces float and
fold and their orbit is in reach of the
foam coughed on the beach,
the cyclical physics in the
diodes implode, each edifice
saunters into sleep behind them.

Tomorrow
the city erupts, full enough
for gutters to bleed, abrupt
strikes seen among
the chain links and
trash heaps.
Tonight,
they're witness to a
cruel mother's steel belly
rocking in crude oil labor,
and her youthful light who

leaps to spy how
its birthpains coax a
body into another -- to
share what do the
sea and sky. When

Gravity herself weaves
a celestial web above, and a
fledgling *******
bed below, it tucks them
softly, safely, neatly
into their human details

so deeply a cry is heard. It is the
ocean trapped in itself alone,
so envious in the brackish tomb.