Cal Freeman

                                             where the jet skis run
amok and dogs plash
                                              in shallow water.
Pinconning or somewhere.
                                              It's just like dusk to sort
                                              the information

                         and insist upon wholly deregulated
                         the varieties of teeth (incisor, eye, and molar)
and the way those teeth outlast us
                         relegates most equipment
to the level of dish soap: quotidian,
                                              uninspired genius,
like a beast that spends the afternoon
                                              paring toenails for an hours-off
                                              peregrination into nowhere.
We are the only species
                         convinced by the etymologies of place names.
Once I evoked the rabble of Pinconning,

                               I finagled my slouched body into a wetsuit
and rode the anodyne roil of last hour's wake.
                               Once, which lends a veracity to what
follows: a stranger comes to town,
                               some voluptuous structure burns,
all hearsay
                               indicts the cupidity of yokels.