You brushed my blouse at zero---
two hands---
reticulate the

obvious mystery.

So comely never wishes. Staring at the ocean, in its reversal. Some, in the slant of sleep, will swallow us, before we have a chance (a chance! abandon chance woman!) to go back to the zone.

You bursared my blouse at one---

to tell it in "advance"---

one willow, a breath from a sunless seacrest.


I won't tell you my new name. (Unless I do.)