I went to this party, I stared at a man in orange glasses,
And then there was nothing to do
Except follow his red cloth shoes to the beach.
I buried the base of my glass and watched
As (naked) he staggered too close to the waves—
I sat in the sand and counted my bracelets.
The man in orange glasses said
Cape Breton’s so green—like living inside a salad!
Then he fell backward
Trying to trace a castle in the stars.
I am not sure why I’m convinced
That expressing contempt is my life’s work—
And I should’ve been back at that party
Building my own complex salad
Using unimpeachably local mushrooms (grown
On my body), not here, watching these waves
Throw the same length of chain at the shore.
And why do I crave not the shaved
And lotioned surface of his or any
Body, but only the tangy,
Throbbing interior? Wet wheels spinning, wet looms weaving,
One red tissue after another
Torn by my reach?