All erotic myths lie arched
in this card
from August. Islands are pearls
on plush, and far, a dead colossus floats.
Wrinkled tissue, sky evaporates. The town heaps up
like skulls. Gardens rust, and palm trees bulge
with nets
of golden dates. The beach slips
under a fleet
of levitating boats. I see you slouched
in a teak sling chair, sipping Campari, model
in an ad
beneath the luminous red-striped awning. Bikinis,
like confetti, speckle the sand, and ferries fan
to Paradise and Super Paradise.
