It’s hard to explain to the tile man.

I want a Fragonard Floor with pink buxom angels,

a feminine Sistine ceiling I can step onto

after a steaming bath. I want it surrounded by

the summer sunset I saw last night with a blue cloudscape

of Chagall’s free form sky. Oh, my, the possibilities!

Lay me a salt rhymed shore, a place of lyric transport

beside an ocean of word combinations, pieces I pick up

from a long walk; tumbled color glass, whorled shells, seaweed sestinas

a single crab carapace so perfectly shaped and layered

like a Mark Doty poem.