When Isabella blinks,

no longer eight,

the sand fiddler's drinks

on the shore of the great

where quick touch-and-go

wiped our foot sockets young,

naked as an angel's toe

with its cold tongue—

zigzagging in laughter,

wet footed and ferried

from waves which after-

wards keep God's key buried

fluttering and stupefied

until your little brassiere pops

my love for you so deep inside—

teardrops couldn't, teardrops