Island Houses

A weather vane crowns the building, where water seeps this group includes a received vase of 'Ocean Song'

At the end of a particular position, a trumpet vine resolves up the just-sealed sunning deck. 
Now, as it must have been then, you are unclothed. You've hit the air with a few blasts of breath, paying close attention to how each rose behaves. Hesitations in the dialog excluded, reminders not to get stuck on names,  momentary cosmic exile forms its frustrated attraction to the original next to the pool. I just wanted to read this 

To you before your sun-bleached skin migrates seamlessly indoors. One always finds another realm among objects

That might otherwise make good--as if the earthwork would serve for nothing else. Never objecting
To the amount of work, I suffer and exult the armor of your noise. Equipped with armoires, hot water geysers, song
Of the direct dial, this room encloses where I expect you. Washing a boulder opal from its progressive taps, the pool
Directly out back with a crumbling privacy wall. The spotlit mortar's broken hollandaise lets in the draft or the deck's
Shudder of the central air. A pot-bellied retiree laughed that laugh, with fish bones and a dead novelist's name.
It calls to something within yourself, the knight anole's ballet-pantomime, behaving


Beyond the banal citizenship of mouse poison and the sponge shops. Meanwhile, the sea behaves
Splendidly for the game fishers. So, if they appear on the bonnet of your car, the bats keep down the objected
Mosquitoes, and the newest transplants from Oak Park. Once a year for a week, an occupant still gives his name
Answering the phone at the Ouija board. A literary light becomes the poor, painted slate of one giving up the song
Of life--papaya, sour sop, and dancing. Simple as all that, the patched bike tires of commerce parked along the deck 
Of a rusted sheet roof, banisters of fretsaw work. The doorsteps of family crypts are inlaid with dishes, doll's faces, stagnant pools.


Money is a kind of poetry, at least, a debility for the storms and unpretentious workmen repainting the cracked pools.
There may be a little open space for a print of a roseate spoonbill in flaccid paralysis, with Audubon's supports left out. As vagrants behave,
Where soon one photo begets another satisfied in the sun or ships with a week's order of hydroponic spinach loaded on deck.
If you could, stash away over the years to fall over this soil, among the itinerant fish painters? Their objects
Of cross-eyed curiosity for rugged mountaineers and retired doctors for stereoscopes. Would your song
Perpetuate throughout, after the initial dislocation? The scale models of the colonizers at various distances from each other, their street names


Claiming wet nights of love blended with the garbage odors? Your firethorn in the suburbs has grown two inches this month, naming
You the focus of un-summoned landscapers. Translator neighbors, where from the ambient temperature of blood, the leaf-littered pool,
The salt memorizes the believers, where an tourist loses an equal-sized strand of black Tahitians, and other drinking songs.
Coming upon the current remodel, a pink estancia, where the owner at his pitchfork is working to extract his pacemaker. I behaved
As if he should have used the plunger. Such desperate behavior hints at a larger story about nomads, the object
The exterminator narrows on, being that he has become the effective narrator. Sacrificing everything for that deck,

Flame tree blossoms settling on the sagging transmission lines, with the right lure for organic predators, a deck
Dizzily swept in hurricane weather. And fortuitously or not, I can imagine the stillness, the blank nameless
Spot on scientific maps where the resident resists the pull of a Nautilus machine adjacent to the writing desk or objecting
To rescue efforts to the mainland. I as the young camp follower realized my shape on the predawn bed, redolent from the pool
Of dreaming. Years of diligently trailing animals leave one unprepared for such conversation, where one must behave
Regardless of the panned pieces. Waving an invisible fist above the head as salute, it is time to withdraw for tomorrow's song


Twists the ending like a gale.  Reaching the upper decks in order to be salted, the mind's calcification shatters in song
At least it ended with one older child in tears. The way land vacancies behave reminds me not to get stuck on names.
After all, salt cannot be considered part of it. One finds another realm of frustrations in the reflecting pool.