Salt

Salt

Blemishes tanned and sunned and baked into continents and clouds and drift.

Exotic dirt. Erotic calliope of painted hippos and carriages demur,

of grace and élan on the mechanical turn table,
of sound and sand,

relaxing the muscles around the eyes and mouth.

The plank.

The dead man’s pose as for the regeneration,

the flood that is coming to the hard church floor,

the dusty yard and the politics of herds

moving as hoofs move with the thunder of nomads and refugees.

Without home, on the air as the dust of the Sahara out in a cloud over the vast Atlantic,

the passage caught up in itself darkly telling of the deep and the way little things sink or by nature float and bob

as the flux revealed between her dreamy lashes of waves so reverent on the beach with

the sand laid out as hands might smooth the surface of warm baked bread with butter.

A bit of fat for the lean of salt and water, beaks and sinews,

glass from the factory with its over lay of a jeweled sky beginning to drip and fade in the breezes of the evening with coastal highway sounds distant but steady

from the veranda dreaming of Spanish, of the horse and guitar

with strings of cat gut and silver.

It cuts right through me like the bite from an apple

cleaved and sweet with the core left to brown on the ground where mists and droppings

speak of seeds and earth metabolizing you and me in our places, using our mouths

on each other to suck the clean tangs and more bitter body from survivors,

swooning on the verge of surrender, hope and twilight.

Rolf's Poems and Pictures

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