Icy oval oceans cover his blue eyes
Neon tetras jump through the space between his teeth
Whales yelp, chocolates flip, the cresting waves
Throw gossamer sand between his toes
Ice melts in the mouth of a pelican
Shostakovich blaring in the shell by the lifeguard tower
He eats every note
Bette Midler rides a surfboard from Central Park West
His eyes are ice blue oval oceans
He’s reading a public library book two months overdue
Sleeping on the wing on a Sunday summer morning
A dolphin’s jive talking on a steamer rug
When the swollen sun hits high noon babies laugh in the jumbo waves
The desiccated sand of superficiality kicks up
Afternoon falls tightly as the sun hoards its ripe heat
He takes off his clothes, folds them
Neatly
Into his knapsack
And walks into a Frank O’Hara poem
It has been said that the whole world is static
Movement a dream we interpret
Honeypie can’t understand the logic of it
She’s swimming; waving; dripping
In her banana yellow bikini on his blanket
He will return from the Bowery with a pack of Gauloises
Night will be falling like water off a surfboard
Bette Midler gone, inherent sleeping wing
He’ll be chanting littera scripta manet in banana yellow
To the dolphins’ jive, Hey man, cool
She will dive into his icy blue ocean and be gone