Musee Imaginarie
Portuguese-man-of-war,
knocking on the ocean's door.
Making the moon shine in the mist,
of this and that, and that and this.
The seacow and the seaweed meet,
and brush the sand off their feet.
Then sit and watch the waves roll in,
and kiss and kiss the beach's chin.
The sandbar tickles the seacow's toes,
and the white-caps dance on the seaweed's nose.
With too wildly wounded moments-
that close and open, and open and close.
Ave atque vale!
Ave atque vale!
The rest is missing,
with-in the walls.
The first-lady-in-waiting,
eternally feminine, eternally fading.
Felt his voice and nothing more,
in the desperate dunes of nevermore.
Where new fragile blues break into grays,
and the tap, tap, tapping tapestry waves.
To the faces that the wind is making,
behind the dressed-up-girl part par-taking.
Dance into this or that, or that or this,
the dripping drops, drop, and miss-
doe-see-doe here and doe-see-doe there,
spill your tears and let loose your hair.
So she cried:
tears for things,
things in dreams,
little by little,
the meaningless means.
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