Earth’s heir, pre-historic prophet
in prayerful ambush position
on the sea side of this beach-house door,
intricate erector-set contraption
of twigs camouflaged to match
salt-bitten boards, you swivel
your skeptical, bicycle-seat head
my way, a cosmos horoscopal
in eyes bulbous as convex mirrors.
I see myself, prey to the cri de coeur
of visitations. But you’re no augur;
I’m on my way to the outdoor shower.
I know in sex you’ll eat your mate. In hunger,
your self, as at my hackled back, you always stir.