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[Devilfish clouds close in] If there were ever a moment when the floods came again, tilting earth toward the days of serpent people spinning upward from the UFO crash site, I would buy you strawberry ice cream.

I am upset with the ocean, the way its predictability washes over my chaos. I see blood near the buoy pouring from rich lovers with nothing to pursue but life. I think about scrying into their blood. I think about scrying into blood and ice cream.

My first two wet dreams came last week at 33 in the bed of our sailboat—the first was for love and the second for gangbangs. There was fruit in my wet dream.

I wish I could churn the ice cream myself and pick the strawberries from our garden where they sat green all summer filled with slugs and worms until the rain rolled in. But we are far from our garden.

We will continue sailing and we will live off the salt. I will use it to make you ice cream, and the ice cream will melt, and we will pour it into a birdbath, and we will stare into it, and we will see other worlds.

We will see Candyland or maybe that’s too obvious.

But any place is sweeter than this place. The place where my skin has been peeled.