(Tarpon Springs)
The olive fails us, and the sea withdraws
Its offer of the horse
To have us gather, as a last recourse,
Far sponges for your faint applause.
On agitated floors, in weighted boots,
Slick rubber shapes our skin.
Our bodies (warmer suits) may be within
Pure Greek-Praxitilean moods
Or may not be. Ashore, the coffee’s Turk,
The footstool Ottoman,
The cheap turquoise New Mexico. At one
Weak point, unknown, the tide turns back
And is its opposite. The bitten coin
Becomes the credit card.
Melon of Persia, foe we breakfast on,
The slice is crescent; the rind is hard.
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