I'm out of red again.

Fingers brush,
feet cut canvas knives
in concrete three-step slide;
sharks are the dancers,
don't you see,
in deepsea ballroom dives.
No dogfish do-si-do for him;
he likes the teeth in a
great white waltz.

Even if the tide
spins out only twice,
he stays

To dance the night away,
saying
'Sharks are the artists,
watercolor masters of
(monochrome, anyway)
all they see'.
He pins mako and thresher
in silver up and down his sleeve
and sweeps the canvas blue.

No green,
these weeds will all
come down

Razor-eyed,
cartilidge hands stretching
seaward down to deeper waters with
skin sandpaper-scratching
on southern current lines.
Primer splays a tidal crush,
wave-thumping in the search for

something

In H-2-airways no one breathes.
See
sharks are the singers,
rythmic mix masters of
toothsong silent nights;
his lemon finds form
made up in word-pictures,
tiger tone lingering like

bassline bite
with no chorus.
This is all about verse.

I'm out of red again.

AKL 2006