Blue stroked into a coast—brown and white and ochre into cliffs daredevils jump off and swim into a cove or a boat if life becomes such that if you filmed the scene there’d be a beer commercial.

Cranes fly over cranes in the Ukraine which, to sing a logic, not much else, no principle, a part partaking variously, signifies homosexuality is scandalously diverse; more often than not heterosexuality seems homogenous.

There’s something about a built dude in swim trunks—his left arm (tattooed with a band culminating in a bull’s head like on a buckle) scratching his throat roped by a twine necklace—bull’s-eye—which makes me hard in a flash.

The water there felt particularly hard; the beach stones shone with a high polish as if buffed by diamonds. The place was beautiful but not sexy; I’m sober so this is no prickling issue; it’s sweet as jelly, slick as a fish flank. I’m in a desert.

The nearest fish is food or a fossil: algae slick, embedded in the cement anchoring a piling so people can come and go via the bight reflecting birds “in a tantrum.”