Jay Dillemuth, p.2

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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.

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