I live for a sliver of water in my
window. It rings.
I take the call.
Hello.
The slate gray bay
breaks on a granite rock crop—
I drink this finger of beauty
straight.
It doesn’t take much
to make me alive
and I love most things
for the way they cast off sense.
With tangerines for eyes
to see maximum brightness,
with nipples pure,
cuticles true,
my role is oil
to grease the machine
that drills images
and always fails
to break into their brined hearts.