Low-tide, a bungalow,
mosquitoes. The sea 
spitting salt mist 

over dry rock. Rum.
Rum and sleep.
And every dream’s a piece

of flotsam parting 
the current of my body.
The erratic shadow 

of a bat appears 
when I wake to the real
remade. I can feel

a thousand lizards stuck 
to the walls of my eyes.
They say, you are who 

you are much too much.
Night ripple and tree 
mumble, maybe. 

A volcano spilling
fire, sheets of whale
whisper. The wind 

sojourns far too long.
My eyes know all too well
how long I’ve been dragging 

this sad island around.