The Parade Is Not Diplomacy

There’s an egg in the dark
and somebody talking to you.
An egg in the dark and a man—
you—under the shut sun.

When somebody calls you all light up
and walk the shores in rows
like untrustworthy mushrooms.
You are more scattered than a row

and devour the flank
after the battle. You take it down together
and peel back the flank
of the animal. Fur glued to paper.

Paper glued to the backs of your hands.
“It’s like it nourishes me.”
You finally get to be sad like the moon,
together. Everybody is mad at each other!

You don’t know them! You
know the sand. It’s thick,
like silt. Your characters exit,
presumably to have sex.

You finally believe your luck
sitting across from a great actress, who says,
“Being with other people will ruin your life.
Always should, always has to, always will.”