Air winged. Sitting by Bats. We wondered writing of beautiful things what’s beauty’s place.
the poolside you see how richness
unfolds, sip rum and coconut while three
children are killed in a nameless village
whose headlines never make the news.
Vacation depends on going to sea with
the world at your back, sleeping in a walled
compound where the hysterical barking of
a dog is fear come closer. Is this one of those
Tourists in Bloody Massacre? Or just Another
Summer Night in the Warm? With sea closing,
foaming, life could change. We hold sacred what
we can. Servants serve. Cool rum and coconut
milk are refreshing. Black sand burns our soles
and small shells can almost be ignored. Two men
near with their lines. Fisher kings. The closest
edge of water hisses near. Is it very angry?
All we know is the knowing of shopping
for fish, dead buoy fifty feet on, prehistoric
pelican, sun flattened to a peach. When clouds
huff up we feel done. Why can’t we go right
far where the two meet? Ulysses had his moment.
The sun winked through his clothes.
Day parade, night parade. Our best part
was before. Street’s in readiness, carpets laid
in tender grass and flowers in shapes of vases
and crosses bright with dew. Purple curtains
welcome bearers down from the mountains.
They heft their weight to new hands while
soldiers mill aimlessly. What lovely pictures
lights make! The screen of incense opens
to exaggeration. Faces of the effigies are
changed, hair black, skin brown, tear-
colored tears. Funeral songs for all the
dead are sonorous and mighty and
showy sad. How nice to share! Follow
the band following Jesus until our bar
comes on the right. No one minds here
where the lower chorus sings below
sounds of speaking. We’re announced
by our noise. It comes around. American,
we piss in foreign courtyards with impunity.
I think explorers, Ulysses always, Columbus
too, refusing to trade places. Watch them
visit with time for tacos and boutiques, for
a picnic spread across the checkered sheet
red and white over the South Country.
