He must have been one or two, I was five,

my brother Johnny’s cock

floated like a rose of soap in the tub;

it had the faint, light rock of the boat

you carry in you when you’re on land again

at the end of the day . . .

Oh all I’ve never gotten written down!

On paper, on my skin. Oh navy blue lake

that I want to drink

to the bottom. And you,

Barrie, what can I give you to drink?

Not the flask of ourselves, we already have that.

The solitude drunk

in the kerosene lamplight at the caravan table . . .