Nothing in the nothing before dawn
but the bent screak of a crow,
hedges long naked of birds.

First appear the tiniest islands, crumbs
brushed off the mainland, each
outlined in china white, as if by a child.

Once upon a time, began the old tale,
and that's how we knew it was a tale. Shackleton's
fare-thee-well voyage, ship marooned in ice

The sunlight was like wire on the water,
that morning the ghost ship drove upriver.
The only witness was a Jersey cow.

The quicksand builders built
against the Folly of All.
They built from ancient custom.

The palms looked wary even in broad afternoon,
thin women in fancy ribbed hats.
Beyond them the hooded sweep of the St. Johns

The gravid gecko lies
aslant a stalk of banana, 
just a tilde over

The room was airless and damp,
the sheets a skin of sweat.
The greasy feather pillow
curled like a postage stamp.

Along the rented sands of New York bight
used bandages and needles wash ashore.
The summer islanders are in a roar,
reduced to August in a living hell

The blonde unlocks
her daddy’s Firebird,
blood-red as a tropical fish.

We’ve received the morning post;
Royal Mail has sent a roast:
Let the ten-pound package lie

Beneath a sky whose hardened violets
still chase a warm front’s temperatures along,
the mockingbird and mourning dove create

So complete, the imago of consciousness,

the mosquito’s predatory whine
beauties itself in the clothing of childhood.

The great blue heron’s tinctured swerve
fires its yellow bill with the trout's alloy.
Why in place of nature cure