Beau is a fishermen
He is the milky way beyond the water,
tuna fishing where the Greek gods of the sixties
profit from the cruelty of human kindness, chanting
tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
in a particular stretch of fishing line, like misquoted
verbiage, deep in thought, discourse on foot fetishes
and fatalism;

impressionism, coffee percolates,
the sound of sex in another room
parody, monsieur?

Beau is smoking a cigarette
underneath the white wick of the moon;
and I tell a story about Shibalba and the
amazons, reaffirm that god is a woman
in love with earth, and the girl is contently trying to become
one with the rib;

Beau is hypnotized by the sirens
nude on the rocks of the ocean, calling
out to him,

he is not mine,
I will not allow it.