Vague human masks pipe out a

sweet coverture.

The isle is swarmed over by their

                 bird proxies
pillaging while seeming to

bestow the crystal wink, all such

        imitation

takes its aspect from nature.
Chisels shape a loaf of rockwool,

        chipping at a coast

song bandages.

        Tulips streaked black
jostle amidst deepest clefts –

        and to appearances flop.

Silver balls roll away.

So intervene at last: stems
thirsting for their flowers, bleep

after five seconds,

inside polythene they crisp with

        emergency hydration:
the syrup drawn off is their ichor

winks clear and metered.

        What increase,

what a good package, what joy –
once he pierces the spongy pink

economy.

Dress this table perhaps. Truss

one snipe or plover each,
divert from lip to cistern lip

until his pursed mask collapses.

               Leaving nothing

for it but to trill, trill sort-of,
nothing for it

but to make light of

               spoliation, of its spillage

slathered on the island of love.