Telemarketers

I stand in the sweaty afternoon

with my plucky face bared

to inconsiderate air.

I played cymbals until sound

quit without notice.

Even the waves beat the

rocks noiselessly.

I am leaking from my skin,

Watering the grass.

Marketers breathe into their telephones,

into territories of love and laundry.

into the most private

biomes of gratitude and violence.

Can I buy an antibiotic

for the infection in my thoughts?

Mornings are mundane.

Behind me,

The soundless ill intent

of summer.

Above,

the sun counting the life that

slips from me in grams.