Field Notes ▪︎ Prose (2)

4. On Coravia waterfront

Where I sip cold beer and practice love by day by night by Calvert county beach like a prayer, where I wake up to eat figs and walk the streets of Sicily bare feet feed the jar in me with carambola juice cool ice cubes under my sweet tooth. To be one with the gods is to sail with the sand still stuck to your bikini bottom harvesting baby suns like a tan on your skin like freckles on your cheeks.
West side is my summertime in bronze skylines, sunny Rivieras being in paradise writing about being finally found by the cobalt-blue gent. On a yacht or in his arms contemplating the lush the superabundant stone piers where children nosedived into water like aircraft, the preen beated necklace he wore the one I hand-made with peace and love symbols, letters of my name and persian timber peas. This gent is the merman under the sol under the human marinera dancing me.