From the Fishouse

There are fragments
of everything. An artist draws

the sun on the verge of arrival.
Andres the poet says you can't fight

this heat, it's too large for us,
so pleasure must be discovered

in the submission. Two boys walk,
one in front of the other, holding him

by a leash. A Chihuahua smiles
at the basil from Piemonte's, approves

and nods at the smokers
in front of the Revue. A Mexican

boy rides a low-rider bicycle slowly.
As his feet complete a rotation—

Coolio finishes a verse.
No one sweats here,

where small dogs rule
and a young woman

with swirling tattoos excavates
her lover's mouth,

her tongue stud sparkling
from the sinking sun.