At this time,
we feast the son

mammal-fed, citronella 
after dark, little fires

the oldest light 
in the world.
At this time,
we ask who we are,

and movement answers 
first person—

I was 

busy;

oblations 
or ablutions

for the short and long
in it all.
At this time,
I have forgotten the body.

Oops.
November agains

and every blossom untendered
goes to seed.
At this time,
I match

another conifer.
I am bone dry.

Tindered. Even the prayer 
flags are hung,

bleached 
to teak verandahs,

and hot air rushes 
escarpments.
At this time, 
I swallow a mollusc,

organ as trojan
water type as horse.

We’re rolling 
cheap wordplay,

entering 
then backspacing

parentheses:
My mother still has

(teeth). 
At this time, 
I sashay

snout to sphincter
become coconut flesh

so easy to love.
A captain cook cruise.

A malibu-themed christmas, 
crown land and common wealth

kikis. Meaning sashimi’d 
in terms possessed,

then cured— 
like a pig.
At this time,
we have eaten,

find father 
in a jock, strapped

to a convertible. 
Did he wrap around

the left 
or the right?
At this time,
we intermittent

fast
look over the obliques

—tense again—
to see if someone really was there

ready to snatch 
this junk,

every little thing 
we held,

this close
to loss.