Think water, its diamonds
on the brink of sinking,
a pleasure boat, Pleasure
painted—ital.—midhull,
a cold glass thrust up
to shore—highrise at sunset—
its bubbling fast,
the short life of ice,
the sand, with its hilly secrets,
a rug of weed thrown over
backyard trash, and a spigot
of leaves screening what
the sun might do
to a lettuce plume.
