In The Golden Age of Counterfeitting
The beach full of puddles makes the ocean look bigger.
Guilty. The signs posted are turned the other way.
Colors confer. The cloudy eyes of a fish blur and green
while a horsefly rides a red plastic cup. This doesn’t happen
so much as seems newly painted. I subtract the color
from the studio walls. I hold a centerfold sideways
until it is taken by the wind. I guess it’s only fair: another
wave and another wave pranks the beach. The sun
is a killer. Any star, before it can come out, must be
a separate thing from ourselves. If I had a wish: a far castle,
a chain of lights just now turned on, forget it. Picture this
life. I am reminded of you because I seek a rider’s
finality. Language has but one god who made
me slow. What I confess I confess in my echo.
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About the Author
Christopher Salerno’s most recent book is Minimum Heroic. His poems have appeared in American Letters and Commentary, Denver Quarterly, and elsewhere. A chapbook, ATM, is forthcoming.
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