Sea Foam Palace

(Bubbling and spuming as if trying to talk under water, I address you thus:) Must I pretend not to love you (in your present bloom, your present perfection — soul encased in fleshly relevance) so you won’t believe me just another seabed denizen vying for your blessed attention? Some of us (but not you) are so loosely moored to our bodies we can barely walk a straight line, remaining (most days) only marginally conscious. We stagger and shudder as buckets of   blood or sperm or chocolate mousse or spittle or lymph or sludge sluice continually through us... I love the way you wear your face, how you ride this life. I delight in the sight of you, your nervous, inquisitive eyes, though I try to act otherwise. Being stoned out of thy mind only amps up thy fearsome brain wattage. Pardon my frontal offensive, dear chum. Forgive my word-churn, my drift, the ways this text message has gotten all frothy. How was it you became holy to me? Should I resist, furiously? Is this your true visage, shaken free, flashing glimpses of what underlies the world we can see?Do not forget me murmurs something nibbled by fish under the sea. After dark you’re quick-silvery, wet /slick /glistening. Don’t make me chase you, dragging my heavy caresses, a pair of awkward, serrated claws, hither and yon. Give me a swig of   whatever you’re drinking, to put me in tune with the cosmos’s relentless melt, with the rhythms of dish-washing, corn-shucking, hard-fucking, bed-wetting, and the folding of   bones of other loves into well-dug graves...    may we never become lost to the world.