Who's hearing what I'm hearing? Who's seeing what I'm seeing? Who's feeling what I'm feeling, this sea-deep butterfly tide of year sifting in a way I only strive... I feel apart as a buoy a-bobb in an every-rising current frothy and warm like milk as I suck from the nipple of sound and text, leach-thirsty but camel-humped I'll stay, for to the pails of hourglass be but dunes of sand. And this sand?: These are beaches with dry dollars, mermaid track... even bottled notes to gold. Dolphin flip, sand pipers sip, crabs clip, barnacle grip... On kelp I slip up pool, hands on the small shells and stars. Salty sighs of wind heave to me chapped like chips with their fish. I'll lay now by the lap of waves, A wide, blue pulse rolling its blue eyes to me, saying: Lonely b[u]oy, eye patchless, head capless, leg woodless... you face me peering like a pelican, expecting me to just spout secrets like my rotten ships. Dive instead of rolling up the cuffs. Breathe snorkely. Keep a log... I sometimes seek castles which were built sucked sand-stoney into their mote, and think of my building ways, and my throne... (1997)