For Paul

There you are in Nevada, painted fuchsia.
--You look into the camera like you could melt it
by thinking the thought.
Licking the girl on your right, her breasts
the colors of the flag.
Sand blows through the picture,
making a blur a smile.

You'd like to capture this moment, at 39,
to spread open chrysalis
where your wound, an angry fist.
Something holds - the release of
two women, bundles of plums.

The beautiful cocoon hangs
suspended, leaning into you, a

version of her, the way she was
by the sea,
you said,
just a mirage.