with a woman. He’s a disenchanted
European. She’s a lost soul, covered

in evening. It’s one of those exotic places.
And these identifiable subjects
momentarily
between reference points. Onward, to the

deserted island, he says, at some point.
Maybe then things will be all right.

And with this romping girl there on a walk in the wilds,
all balmy. And the wilds
milling
out in the undergrowth, all these eyes sparking

in the firelight. As scenarios go, I
always loved the postcards there. On the beach,

and in-between palms, pale

orange, green and gold, and
white, and rust and brown. Apologies.

My apologies.

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