A lion-share of ocean air
rips readers lips closed upon those little movements
made while reading
alone. Rooted and willed,
we angelicize our enemies: perceived
as helping ones—vitally loved ones.
What is there to hate? Those leaves browned on their own—
No faults were needed.
Then the air breezes against us
a lion’s will with a little tasted sand and sun
—never enough sun
then, a moon gently calls for lovers.
Yes, a sun shuts mouths
while she, the moon, opens and draws them.
What is there to read? Those relations rose and receded in company—
No reading now.
Taste the wake of a goat song.