I stand as on some mighty eagle’s beak.
If—at the end of the parking lot
where nests of boulders hide gull wings and
the bleached plates and shards of crabs and
heaps of unidentified feet and arms and legs,
where the flagpole clanks hollowly in the wind
—one drinks up (or gulps down) the Atlantic,
the Atlantic would still be where it is, except it
wouldn’t be what it is, the Atlantic, a Jell-O
of lifeless fruit: it would be
Zalinski himself, his skin stretched across the world,
the stripes of his oxford like lines
of longitude, his breath like trade winds,
his right hand like a cup in Cattlewash
filled with killdivil rum, his toes
tickling the toasty coast of Curaçao.