"And this," you said, "long beach at Haat Plaa Muk,"
Blond of your brown right hand becoming that damp
And trash-dappled sand in the air above your mug.
"And this home I," pointing at a callous on the puff
Beneath your little finger, probably a place
With nervous chickens and broad fluorescent blossoms
Bobbing in the yard. The light surrounding your face
Is the alien green of the grass on the screen the TV
Looks through to the bar, and about a nautical mile
From the curve of your hand you are carving a double-u reef
Where the cuttlefish teem and the scattering moonflashes pile.
I swam in that water, renewed my interior flesh
Which mixed with that air and that cool and that slippery food
And reverted to gray in the blown static spray of home I had left.
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