Power rigs drift like lights out past the breakwater,
                                               white, and fluorescent white.
The sea moving them up and down

 One of these days, if I can get up the nerve, I think I’ll cut
off a piece of my own head and eat it.

June is a migraine above the eyes,
Strict auras and yellow blots,
                                                green screen and tunnel vision,

Sundown smoke like a pink snood
                                        over the gathered hair of the mountains,
The sun a garish hatpin

Darkened by time, the masters, like our memories, mix 
And mismatch,
                                   and settle about our lawn furniture, like air

 I love the egg.
  I even love my poor, thick, mysterious skull.

Piece by small piece the world falls away from us like spores
From a milkweed pod,

Friday arrives with all its attendant ecstasies.
Mirrors bloom in the hushed beds.

The ocotillo begins to publish its orange tongues