New Air

We are deluding ourselves.
I’ve got on sheer underthings.
I’m standing on the wing of a jet
Over the Bermuda Triangle.
The ants look like people;

Opposites hate each other;
The world is as obscene
As a lunatic’s volleyball team
And filled with sand commercials.
But let’s eat sandwiches

On the shore in our casual clothes.
If it gets quiet enough
We can hear the great nothing
Sneezing into its sleeve.
If things settle down

In our mind’s eye
And we’re not too taken by
This marbled rye
We can use rooster feathers
To toss a wild green salad

And feed each other little smacks
Until our bodies connect
And we become a pair of stilts.
O, we cannot stand still!
A golden cow will climb on

And go scuttling
Past the breakers laughing
Like the big bang on nerve gas
As we disassemble into the sea,
A mosaic printed on a school of herring.