Montauk

An open haired mother, open
haired boy, closed to a sea-blue

floor,
washed in the tide light.

A moon cretin shape,

sweet
dribbled nape, a sampling

of red goldmines (and evening
sight).

Day bespeaks aroma, encrypted sales
imagery

pearls cottoning surf
past a gravelbed of earth.

I throw up

astride the fast cars,
aside

a widening battle-line.