Peter Richards

Sand Piper with Roofer

The marrow I suck from a sand piper's leg
tastes like a laundered Pez only half as sweet.
I guess part of me expects to begin walking
that way, while another part speaks freely
with critters the sand piper ate. Critters
from the sea notoriously leave my body
in a slightly pondered shape. Sand piper,
be happy you don't have to rip shingles
from a rooftop and blaze that way in the sun.
Rooftop, what are you most anxious about?
That this boy with jagged hair will not slip
and hang for a long time—shirtless, sweating,
and gripping your edge? Compared to nineteen
autumn passes I consider him to be more beautiful.
The double-sided sea on his shoulder.
The background wilderness telling him my mouth
is a chalice. I can see him pounding my face.
I can also see aging happily with nothing but that.
Sand piper, let this be the last time you disparage
my leisure—my cat is only eleven months old
and already he's nonchalant about his vertical leap.
He sits on my bookshelf like a cross-eyed Upuaut.
All morning he goes from room to room searching
for you. We both agree you should take your leftover
spirit and recede once and for all into the foam.

Home |  EPR #1 |  EPR #2  | About EPR

© 2002 Electronic Poetry Review