In paradise, a breeze
blows back our sheets each night
and leaves us almonds
on the pillow;
the volcano smolders
benignly—a side show
for our benefit;
we bathe our sins
in waterfalls;
so many flowering
air plants — the breaking
up of rainbows into particles
of blossom;
the prick on the tongue
of pineapple;
the shape of the serpent here
transformed to woven wreaths
of welcome;
and all the time
the surf-a kind of thorough bass,
God’s voice beneath
the consciousness
of music.
Back home
we call it jet lag
this compulsion
of the eyes to close for good
on winter.
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