ON THE ISLAND
The glistening dead do not shout.
Instead they preach:
"We are on the boat now. You are on the island."
When I was young
we used to pluck the cicada shells from the trees,
they were like ghosts
from castles of dimly irascible futures.
if insects can be irascible,
can be anything,
in their regimented climb towards death.
We mastered useless sarcasm while the world peeled itself.
Since then, I have found a sort of valiant repose,
shambling in my bed towards the psychotic weapon of dawn.
I do not shout, and I do not preach.
My cunning achievements
of poorly spent days and nights
walk beneath the soil of constant hours.
known only as my eyes,
I find the space within space
and plummet towards cold plastic valleys
in the streets of science fiction cities.
The diamond of this body
is unconscionably worn around the neck of God.
He - or she - has fashioned archipelagos of jewelry
plucked from the fluid of time.
I am trapped on a clever atoll,