A speck in fog, the wet
Prometheus lights His pipe
and waits among
the dust grains of the shore.
He taps the lost
crabs in His seaweed plush
and checks the belly.
She is female.
Only a turbine wind
now sings the birthdays
of the seas.
Once gods,
now sooted,
we may choke on sea bones.
High froth extinguished
an eternal flint.
Then the curtains
flow long
over a mattress
length’s soft
arrowed three-pronged song
of a Prospect Park loft.
And come comets,
come, to commiserate,
ring the foot
with bangles,
fish the dangling hooks
from our
fawn-white ankles.
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