you can hear them pace their fingers
like anxious doves across electrical wires;
they lift feet and let them fall.
can you hear their whispers listless in a humid flat?
where steam is spawn of flesh;
where the salt ocean meets the stone shore.
they're some dream of infant alligator in the cool
of their holy egg beneath a louisiana canopy.
the beckoning of sex a swamp,
the committed fool to his ophelia.
.
