South America

three barges round the artery, wound up in sails. the captain in front, his lieutenants floating after guns at eleven, daisies in the stern thin vase / mosquito nets at dawn.

swat and wicker fans on the dinner deck / trumpets at eight, accordions at nine-thirty / red velvet served on silver, then scarlet marzipan, then  forth to the croaking bubbles! amphibious and warm, nestle into the wood, squeeze us tight / the hull / furtive into our chicken dawn.

giants step over the river when we sleep, a rolling minor earthquake in our dream. we wake, we stumble to the silver faucet, through hanging beads then a splash, a second of bewilderment, a low overboard moan below the still-forming sky, like thunder after a strike, then another splash, and finally laughter.

at the second or third village we reach each other’s arms, happy in the simple sense between down pillow and headboard, slow sunup with croaking scales / pincers / overnight nests in the mud and rock against the starboard (eyes at the fertile shore)

we lounge under breakfast on trays and the water reflects our silver forks and knives. cicada cicada cicada