The Lame To Sea.

Body of bones and shrimping heart like a sole golden raisen.
Air blows between the cracks of his too large feet muscles
Swatting and rising and beating the hole in the sky. Predetermined sepulchral.

He says there is a cloud looming as death and that is its name.
It smells of guts and stuff of insects.  And, indeed, it quivers
buzzes and weeps gnats and flies and locust. Biting ripened peachlike cheeks.

A head like gardengrown lettuce growing thick brown hairs, left abandoned,
creeps as a woman's soothing red nails. Hush, hush, just the rain.
He cries like gurgling of a drowning baby. Too much, too fast, too succulent life.

There is no thirst no monsters hiding in thick pink stomach skin, grumbling as trolls.
A stillborn ages meaningfuly inside his man belly, ever sinking into itself.
As he lies, the sun does bake his nose to a red and flaming knob.  Peeling, seething, peeling.

Lame with fever and the fervor of clocking ticks banging his skull of tight drumming flesh,
a suggestive and dismal revelation, he resembles a rock on a sandy dune
and the ocean is a salty stinging insect in the cloud's impending arrival.

He says some have reached me before the rest. 
They have been stinging me all the years of my life.
I will sit here and wait wait and break my awful legs that haven't ever bent and flexed quickly enough.

He says, I could anchor my lungs with the stewing of oystershells and snailywet, and I just may.
I will swallow, he says. I will swallow, I will sputter, I will sink.