The surf is surging salt and quake,
blue turned white like suds from soap,
defects bearing mites afloat
with curly languid waves of hair
atop a dudette diving a bomb,
spitting curses only sharks can hear
of vapor spraying through downy flakes
as though flung off of lapping tides
and Chick would go—his short, quick strokes
scrolling frame by frame
like wild flames dance,
flouncing grace and terror on local staff
with kids to feed.
A lone albatross and a contrail
sprout from SFO. The blood-soaked sky
is yellowing too soon. The morning boats
won’t come for some time.
White daggers off the lapping water,
apple cider vinegaron my eyes.
Blink. A flash
and something flaps onboard.
I do the jitterbug
Whew. I worry too much. Who notices
a little dinghy anyway? An albatross
is just a bird. If only I could stop for OJ
and waffles. Should’ve brought a mug
of hot cocoa. No one could’ve seen me.
Dawn’s lonely light. Even the currents
are going my way.
Yellow and blue nothingness.
Orange, orange all over.
Kenton K. Yee writes from Northern California. A former Columbia University faculty member, his recent poetry appears in Plume Poetry, Rattle, Threepenny Review, TAB Journal, Constellations, Sugar House Review, Mantis, Berkeley Poetry Review, SLANT, Quarter After Eight, Analog Science Fiction & Fact, Cutthroat, and others. Yee holds a theoretical physics PhD from UCLA and Stanford law and business degrees.