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Curtis Perdue

The Book of Islands

 

 

Hey, I have a body too.

Except on Sundays.

 

When the volcano gives

birth to another isle

 

the sea urchin lusts

after a pineapple.

 

Are those stars

on your tongue, or did I open

 

my eyes under water?

Sometimes I long

 

To be a hammock.

Sometimes my body, tangled

 

like mangrove roots. A crab

with one claw still gets by.

 

The sky wears a sarong

of clouds and I am peeking

 

at the sun.

Sometimes I close my eyes

 

to see what’s not there.

Usually an elephant 

 

in the shape of a cloud.

Usually a cluster of islands

 

glowing in a black sea.

I’m stranded on one.

 

Can you see me

waving away the pelicans?



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