"Brighton Beach" by Michael Vizsolyi

I held up the saintly jawbone of fishpicked clean by sea-gulls,and you imagined a fence, a garden gnomeholding a cigarette, staring pasta row of white tulips.You mentioned Pest.I said, look the colonnade of teethwhere we have entered,and you made yourselfa tongue balancing betweenthe short wood pillarsin the stone mouth of lionguarding a bridge to nowhere.You said, drink brandy from a dress shoe,take the canoe, head west:the mayflies will fall like confettiupon your arrival.You imagined a bit of bothheaven and hell in the dark water,and if you could get right down to it:a tiny place, circled by a school of blue fish.Two Russian men walked nakedinto the freezing water. Two Russian menwalked naked out of the freezing water.I knew the wave would reach you,that this little Odessa would wipeits indifferent mouth on your blue jeans.I said we have practice with this kind of thing:one must learn to open windowsso as not to scare the tiny birdasleep on the ledge.