The Dyzgraphxst

I pull off I’s toes and leaves them near the sea, I’s sea,
back to the sea as before, yet an hour’s drift from
Manzanilla, which is no place but a word I loves,
I knows what begins the act of saying things, what is lodged there
a promise of some life, not unlike this coal-grey sky, not unlike
the not-good marching band a street away throwing madness
out with I’s lonely discography, I says “please,” without toes
but what about these feet now that they are not ceased
in their act of making things, disappeared things
things given over to the gesture, the method, to the field
awash and undertow, what is love but the hand returning
to claim the dust red, white, black as a coal-swept evening