182BIG SUR
These gentle tree pulp pages
which’ve nothing to do
with yr crash roar,
liar sea, ah,
were made for rock
tumble seabird digdown
footstep hollow weed
move bedarvaling
crash? Ah again?
Wine is salt here?
Tidal wave kitchen?
Engines of Russia
in yr soft talk—
Les poissons de la mer
parle Breton—
Mon nom es Lebris
de Keroack—
Parle, Poissons, Loti,
parle—
Parlning Ocean sanding
crash the billion rocks—
Ker plotsch—
Shore—shoe—
god—brash—
The headland looks like
a longnosed Collie sleeping
with his light on his
nose, as the ocean,
obeying its accommodations
of mind, crashes in
rhythm which could
& will intrude, in thy
rhythm of sand
thought—
—Big frigging shoulders
on that sonofabitch
