The turquoise blue scales of a crocodile

so immense that it stretches beyond swells

arches its chopped back an infinite while,

as the sands turn themselves into seashells:

That is below. Above, the bugs flock in

sparks, reversed, attacking the bulbous flames,

like  brimstones to a Philistine noggin.

Higher still, houselights chant their owner’s names:

The sky is purplish above the thick breeze,

and the endless shudder of the tropics

continues to pierce all but metal seas,

and you can’t see the moon, though you got tricks:

You drink trade winds in a bunch of passion,

and you spit hot fire, rife with caution.