The rain has softened into fresh linen,

but these bloodshot eyes do still remember,

on this island of goats, fruit and venom,

in this month six months before December:

The porch was on fire, the hammock singed

down, and the lovely light green almost grayed

away into nothing – a light bulb binged

and purged on its own power and sprayed:

This whole island is purgation, vomit-

even the waves spew forth firewaters,

and certain hooves dance on tails and dumb it

down, and the lights leak lies made of fathers:

This must be the oasis of the seas,

where sand and salt and steel forge reveries.