The porpoises fling up their
orange underthings; swaying
in the wind, their heavy rotation
is brief and horrifying,

full of bright scrawls, of thin
and lacy garters.
There isn’t a place
in this world that doesn’t

sooner or later drown
in the porridge of upload,
but now, for a while,
the bustier

shines like an undertaker
as it floats above everything
with its yellow cognitive science.
Of course nothing stops the flimsy,

black, curved porousness
from bending forward—
of course
restlessness is the great undertone.

But I also say this: that thongs
are an invitation
to undervaluation,
and that undervaluation,

when it’s done right,
is a kind of porousness,
palpitating and porphyritic.
Inside the tight fields,

touched by their rough and spongy noises,
I am washed and washed
in the porridge
of satin delight—

and what are you going to do—
what can you do
about it—
flung, orange negligee?

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