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
