As I Lay Dying

The time comes to go deeper
into self and the time comes
when it is more innocent
or easier to die
like bombers over
Santa Monica,
and I remember
laying there in the sand,
myself 20 years old,
reading Faulkner
because the name sounded good
and being vaguely excited
by something
that was not myself
and closing the book
and getting
sick of the sea
and the sky
blue blue blue
spots of white,
all dizzy in the trap,
wanting out
but knowing
I was nailed
like the sand-fleas
I slapped at,
and Mr. Faulkner
laying on his side
immortal and burning
with my toes
and everything tilting
and not quite
true.