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.

image_pdfimage_print