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Cabo Polonio
A morning’s sweet, windless limp,
a young grey life ends in a crease
ringed by crimped grit.
Later: petals crammed between jubes of succulent.
*
The shelf’s split to the crux.
The terms are lax, despite their bleeding iron.
An outcrop’s lumpen strewn
echoes buried cerebrum, recalls an Incan-
Polynesian construction, a tectonic weave
in a clear, floating egg.
*
Soon the cries arrive, hit the rim,
smooth slab stuffed with lightning, but shucked
slick drains
out to pasture.
Or a lichen melange, a chorus of damp blubber
and their chubby pups,
then a seagull’s lone, snowy point:
the sign of death is a limp neck.
*
Back of that heap there’s a sunset
but what don’t we know of it?
Its broken box, its tilted meadow.
A rock’s pulse dries into arcs
of gravel graphics.
The lichen tips:
the roof tipping into mustard—
gleaming terracotta sleds below the surface,
torn geometries fuse into glitchy sentence.
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