Fat Man At The Beach

Put salt in a jar

That convalescent blue

Shook it until

The sun-flecked afternoon

Groaned seashell promises

Lazily rolling

The lap of drowning dreams

There is always a fat man at the beach

In the background, walking against

The shore like some chagrined duck

Or penguin, skinned raw, useless wings, hands like cranes

Making round desultory pecks

As if

Beyond all proprietal regrets

Still tentatively swimming

A bird inside

There are birds inside the calliope 
I said, when we ran away
To see if the sea
Breaks like glasshouses
Throwing stones
With that sideways trebuchet
Skipped, skipped, subsumed
You bent, bird-quizzically
In your throat 
That inchoate swallowing
Of disbelief
I said; look there
Above the rising
Brass of morning
Pipes rayed like the sun
If you turn, just one step away
Let go my hand
The stone still falling
See them fly