[Dear one, the sea ... ]

Dear one, the sea smells of nostalgia. We’re beached and bloated, lie on shell sand, oil rigs nowhere seen. It’s Long Island, and the weather is fine. What to disturb in the heart of a man? A boy is not a body. A boy is a walk. Shed the machine. Must be entirely flesh to fight. Must be strategy instead of filling. What to disrobe, there, centrifugal logic, as in here is a slice of my finger. Tell me the circumstance of your dick extension. When we slip into imprecision, we lose control, windowless walls close in. Awareness of being in a female body is a tinge of regret. “The human frame to adapt itself to convention though she herself was a woman.” To receive, to be entered, to fret around upon entry. It’s grand. I’m a system. Plants tall as wheat to hide in.