The pulp of afternoon sun
scalds you, calls you bluntly,
pushes its plucky chest
right up to yours.
Sand clogs the horizon
as bathers blunder
in the surf, plugging
their noses and scraping
their knees.

You don’t want to leave
but a giant ear drags you
gagging into the color
of a different word. Listen:
You’ve been listening
to impersonators
hawk their promising impressions
of the future for years now.

Let your hat fall,
the phone is off the hook.

Chris Semansky | Mudlark No. 20
Contents | André Breton Works the Crisis Prevention Hot Line