I

There’s dust and black plastic instead of beach,

the curled tongues of lizards washed up
bubbles of air—the ticking shoreline.

Some beads like scattered rosaries.
There are diminutive shadows

shaped as organs lying next to stars.
Here, a heart there a lung slung next

to an empty can of beer. A peach
who had cause to forget? It lies among

the grit of sand, a broken ear.
Sand is the unit of time

roiling under the broiling waves.
A girl skipping stoops to where she found it,

smaller, more translucent than she was expecting
the politician, fingering

his pocket
looked so care free.

There was so much
of the world, here

on the edge.
II
A dug out pit—two dusty dogs

wuffing wooden air, noses holding scent

padding across curling dirt, snuffing the mouth

of the pit. Noise. Words, more: a stick—they split

past advancing feet moving the blood trail close.

                                 The flesh goes

in and later, as the heat rises

—come the bones.
III
The island is fire

arcing volcanic rock:
How was it was loosed—this coruscant. One care

less strike? Or, more—the low-fi buzz of heat like blood.
It winds its way on the back of noon;

a snake flechettes open ground to trees.
Tongues of ash are floating on ribbons

of light flicking the tide.
They fall curled: displacing topography,

meridian, lines of latitude.
Palm fronds ess. The razed air hits cracked opal,

salt water forks searching boundaries of sky.
We left deformities and mutations.

For a time, there were no eyes to see.