muscles wet with saltwater, semi-stuck
as if I'd mascaraed them with Maybelline
swimming in slow-mo, quixotic figurine
forgetting to breathe--ce qui est essentiel
ne le trouve jamais our intrepid ne'er-do-well--
if I were a lowly Tropical tangerine
then you'd call me Caliban in my limousine.
it's drowning that I'm scared of, dream
of foul weather . . . whispering sirens scheme
to capsize my ship. I awaken, shaken; I blurt
out why is my bed drenched in water, alert
only because this is not a sonnet.