Where Hound Dogs Bay

Lapping up liquidity—
with lipped at, clipped at, air,

“I’d mildly like to scoff at—
my last stretch of ruinous care.”

The wretched, moonless croon-time,
of sun stared, right-root motion.

The beached seed heat in cruelty—
sans sand, y si, sans ocean.

A way my body yawns now,
the whistled-at traps & pulls,

my thought-routine serene now,
those qualms as dot sized gulls.

A big stuck rake of rip-tipped ropes,
my missed-for strength all goes—

unearthing solicitous swinging winds
‘neath fish-eyed caribbean crows.

So sea-born again, in-front from first,
off and peeled for hungry kings;

dry of drought—
the blue blown burst—
hits me…