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

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

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

She was her own celestial city now.
The ravens and the crows in residence
were fallen angels of the picket fence.

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 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

Those heavy, drowned-washrag, still moonless nights
our hands would test the blindness of our faces,
tourists scratching their names on marble columns

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