They are the giant leaf after a rain

knotted around the pelvis of Tarzan,

the swimsuit liner that never dries

on the ride home from the beach,

and which, eventually, ruins the leather,

and let us not pass by the metaphor

of sitting at the top of a hill during

a monsoon, so wet you become,

it’s only when you start to dry off

that you notice the sores

where body parts have been rubbing

up against each other while you thought

you were motionless, also, what you

feel for just a second, after being hit

on by someone you’d prefer didn’t

like you, why dryers offer so much

false reassurance, and how the fish

tossed up on the beach by a rogue

wave dreams as it’s being picked at

by a dog-sized seagull. We give the

crotch rain back to the gods, and ask

the great fires to warm our caves,

to return us to our day-old, genital,

crab underparts. May we flake as

earthen-baked bread made from desert

ingredients, under a dry, hot wind.

Be gone, damp underwear of the world,

go back, go back to your lemongrass

soups and non-air-conditioned living

rooms. Now.