Cold Coffee

At noon
you are delirious, and you speak to the sea
in a language, like a dream

Language that you find romantic,
but she cannot understand. The next thoughts are automatic.

You imagine sex with her

as you sweep cat litter off of the floor. Pour water. Contemplate
the deadliness of a fan.
The knifed bread, the sounds of doors

Somewhere

opening and closing.

One dog’s low bark.

To the daylight in its forms like white bodies in the waves.
Figures in the green folds of waves…

Waking up
re-Waking up
each minute, it seems,

is an account of the day—

Testimonials typed out
by ghost stenographers in the john; secretive
ladies for whom

there is no room. No

opening,
no sequins or pearl.