November 28, 2010

A suspicious moon,
she watches the 21st century
fall around my ankles.

Peeling back the waves
I wrap myself in leftover spume
and swim in the liquid darkness.

As nightless
as forever fading
this blanket is ocean
and earth sexed up.

The black between algae
is moist in a hot mouth kind of way,
a reminder that cellar door
is the English language’s
most euphonious phrase,
at least according to those
who find comfort in categorizing
the innately nameless.

Here, humid and drifting
with the midnight tide,
nothing is verb or adjective,
just hot chocolate smells
between the breaker sounds
and the shores of Africa.

LOCATION: Matadeiro Beach, Brazil – After an all-day bike tour around the island we camped and cooked over a bonfire; later when everyone went to the samba bar I swam naked by myself before retiring to my tent.

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