Samui, Samui, and strand, and
crystal sand, and
the big golden lotus — Buddha, and
the sun blazing
white to the crimson of
your retina.
Sarong caressing hips — below
the navel’s crescent moon
the rainbow garden perfumed with
wild jasmine. Oh mangos, green mangos,
and sugar pineapples, papayas -
the honey running
to your palm.
“Siiingha”, he cries under
the conus hat running over
the fire sand pink feet, gold
body, white pupils, leaving
no trace behind; his heavy
basket filled with
cold beer; “Singha, Singha,”
back and forth, he spins
in constant motion; milk
white farang bodies
motionless on
beach chairs; yellow dogs with
amber eyes scratching, bloody with
bites,
insane with
fleas;
foolish fish jump from
the shallows, wiggling
in the trembling air –
a silver spindle; and
coconuts, hard
coconuts fall from
tall killer-palms
with a bang, without
premeditation;
and you, you are waking from
mother-of-pearl sleep in which
a small, nasty, black bee
full of heavy
tropical pollen has
bitten your
fingertip.
