You can learn a lot about yourself

by your relationship to rain, what

you use to interrupt it. Palm, tongue,

or jerrycan. Crown, rib, or eyeball.

Strychnine local waters lapping loosely

in the font begins the beachside funeral.

Over by the buffet, forcing meat

between my teeth, I bump into a guy

who says, as rain tattoos the sand, buddy,

you’ve gotta forget what death does to a face – 

mouth folding like a shattering zeppelin,

eyes like an oval of sky fizzed with flame

then greyer than fog in front of rotten temples – 

if you wanna continue to look at the living.