Jay Dillemuth, p.2

2. The Castaway

Now I'm marooned on an
island or something, shipwrecked.

The natives with their roman
robes and blood fluids
feel me up.
          They emulate
Picasso, stick me in a pigpen
and show me photographs of
Salt Lake City, more than
sixty in an hour.
                This is not
a safe place--furnace valves
emitting sounds like
cornholed cats.

It makes me think of things.

It makes me think of sherbert flavors
weaving patterns in the ocean
with a hangman's loops.