I am sitting quietly on the verandah, an instrument
for the composition of replies is smoking next to me,
a decoy with a frown.

These are the kind of details that exhaust me—pine
needles, a fly in a web, seashells—the details
you can never forget for noticing—Sophia’s slowly

gliding ducks, her cleavage, her gum…I have questions
that take the form of whippings with fronds, of idleness,
unhappy ancestors fanning the dawn. I predict the destruction

of the temples of Hucumba, and the election of Slick Jones.
Something once terribly important has been lost,
like an island, an embroidered blouse, a colleague

in the parallel world. A swindler’s victory, a fly
I had once known. I disapprove, I don’t remember!
Beyond the reef are sharks and the dainty frippery

of childhood, and, once there, there is no filching.
I was premature on the beach, like algae at lunchtime
sleepwalking with a harp proscribed by hawks.

One looks backward and one looks forward.
Dust is watching life’s talk show.
I plunge like danger into the sea.

My mother stands, facing the wind.