“I Have Written Myself into a Tropical Glow”
The sea is laced in phosphorescence,
little galaxies afloat in the swell.
Insects click their invisible tongues
to wake the silken light—
volcano fire and lizard belly,
dusky skies softening, bats
as the barometer drops, stars pinned
to their velvety seats.
And the air scented, swallowed, insects falling
into the open mouths of waxy orchid
blossoms, spiny bromeliads, water pooling
into sticky pitcher plants, tendrils curling,
frogs bleating their mourning songs, the bleat
that rises, billowing, filling
the air like a flag, or swelling like a sail—
To not think of myself even for an hour—
but of fireflies lighting the understory
and everything tinged with this
hallowed, steeped in birdsong,
the palm fronds pressing against the sky
as if this world were glass and breath
alone could make it flame.