Blue skin scaled over the arched back of the sea, retching.
The sick foam on the shore and on M–––‘s boots.
His shadow on the cliff behind is of an ivy sort.
It lingers after he departs. It weakens the wall.
White salt stays on dried leather like a mountain range.
M––– ponders over his drink. His boots are like his shadow
and like the ivy. They weaken the chair by their embrace.
Liquor drenches M–––‘s throat: a story in reverse.
He leaves backwards with his boots untied.
Everywhere the fences are gaping but small trees
press together in the space between streets.
The motel window is dirty. The train window is dirty.
M–––‘s boots are dirty – they smell like the sea.
There is no sea in cunt. A wise woman says this.
M––– disembarks.
There is no sea in Bolivia. M––– is not in Bolivia.
There is no sea except his boots and those are mountains.
M––– desired the sensibilities of a Chinese poet
but they were rivers and he retched like the sea.
Felix Deiss
DCC: Deiss Composition Collection 