Neither Fox-trots
Nor Maidens

"Even being hurtled
out of the spacecraft, one wouldn't capture
any sounds of the radio–neither fox-trots nor maidens
wailing from a hometown station."
       –Brodsky, from "Eclogues: Winter"










A fantasy of molecules. A sun drench
for example, along the coast of Seychelles,
where blue becomes the white of a sand
that is a fog that is the dust of a dreaming hand.
We of the north spend most hours
inside of another eye planted there as tours.

The hours can only burn through with memories.
The broad sheet of house walls under canvases
of fallow light bridge to synapse of sand islands;
the eye a new world tipped upside down
and shaken to happiness. A lover is found.
There at the water we don't think, just touch lips.