The stars over the Atlantic are dangling

               salt crystals. The room at the Seashell Inn is

               $20 a night; special winter off-season rate.

               No one else here but us and the night clerk,

               five floors below, alone with his cherished

               stack of Spiderman. My lips are red snails

               in a primal search for every constellation

               hiding in the sky of your body. My hand

               waits for permission, for my life to agree

               to be changed, forever. Can Captain Night

               Clerk hear my fingers tambourining you

               there on the moon? Won’t he soon climb

               the stairs and bam! on the hood of this car?

               You are a woman with film reels for eyes.

               Years of long talking have brought us to the

               land of the body. Our skin is one endless

               prayer bead of brown. If my hand ever lands,

               I will fly past dreaming Australian Aborigines.

               The old claw hammer and monkey wrench

               that flew at Brenda Jones will fly across the

               yard of ocean at me. A grease rag will be

               thrust into my painter’s pants against my

               will. I will never be able to wash or peel

               any of this away. Before the night is over

               someone I do not know will want the keys

               to my ’55 silver Thunderbird. He will chase

               me down the street. A gaggle of spooked

               hens will fly up in my grandmother’s yard,

               never to lay another egg, just as I am jump-

               ed, kneed, pulled finally to the high ground

               of sweet clover.

From The Aureole by Nicky Finney