can you dig it

I feel rough, like the skin of a whale,
Dipping, slowly, further, through the infinite sea
As waves rustically flow, smoother, over me.
I feel entrapment,
Perhaps of the shore,
My toes digging firmly into the sand there,
Where little beads of salt dance and stare
On the tips of my tiny toes and their tiny strands of hair
I feel like dirtiness on a Sunday,
You say it can’t be done
but even now my mind swirls in foreplay
Even now we lay, still, naked,
Knowing, full well, God isn’t in those churches
Knowing, full well, God
And call me naïve,
But this out of place I feel,
Like a bent spoke spitting rain
As it scrapes along the grain of the pavement beneath,
Matches, perfectly, rhythmically,
The music the wind makes.
No. I’m not asking that you dance,
But, perhaps, quit asking me to feel surreal,
Nor out of place.