the fried surface

stop it. you
are a
mermaid star

electrocuted to

madness in a universe
of molten gold

or better,
imagine you

as
a diver plunging,
pulling his weird,

warped body
from a sunken ship,

seawater transformations

unanswered
to our desire.

this
essence, half-alive,
is anywhere but

inside and outside,

playing gravity to
melt into our tentacles,

to have a love affair
with atmosphere

answered only
by damp cardboard.

it's almost the snap of a
black rubber hand, grease

shimmers of
what it wouldn't touch,

or the water dancing away
from the olive,

like the henrietta of a
folktale

involving red iron
shoes, steam scattering

on copper
black

from waiting and
not doing.