We want the taste to match the art: the spicy and sharp
suspension. We want jellyfish: ancient, perilous,
swarming our systems. Bless the obvious, un-hidden
in plain sight. Misty chemicals, the ruddy chew.
Later behind the shed there'll be a seed-spit vomiting, too.
The dare to jump into early-year water, elastic unsnapping
of bras followed by bounding, wooden din, down the dock.
We wondered as practice, if this is proof of purity: its presence
or absence, we jury of girls, a muddy brim circling in, carefully
watching the way the lemon-lipped flower folds into the mouth
like a sail, as the body becomes temporary, all over again.