After Reverdy

People and scenery are thrown open
like suitcases. Museum by museum.
And sea dampness has filed down
this monument, its arm resting there.
His salt. Sea corundum. Crusted face
reflects in the old bar window, its breath.
A one-wheeled animal strung in lights
goes past. The name of this is all birth,
don’t say a word. The shore’s the same
fingertips at the edge of the ocean.
A goat walks down the beach, laughing at the waves.
My memory going along has gone blonde with this rain.
The wide lights of the children hiding in the circus,
the lion that turns its eyes away in modesty,
what sort of crocodile do you really consider yourself?
Dew splinters over the familiar blue space
where noon hides from morning. The body
mistaken for a camera is where we all go in
and never come back out.