They use fallen mangoes to pave the streets here.
The verdure could be a lighthouse
but for the rainclouds bulbed on the ridge.
Lush is a word for gallon jugs of rotgut,
not gossamer vines on the balcony--
but one of our lookouts on this imperial court of palms.
You tell me, sometimes Paradise is on Thursday,
but not on Tuesday--sometimes
it's the other way around.
You tell me to watch for the grip of more,
how it'll grapple and pull--
seed the ground in broken-neon shards.
You tell me you wish the serenade of cockatoos
weren't in the shadow of carburetors--
how the ice cream is richer when served by water.
But ain't this the sweetest?
How together we carve seats in the hill on fronds
and jut our heels tight in loose soil.
How we seed our fingers and toes--
our tender shoots in the loam
of another locale to the tune of timbales.
Here, the performance is infinite!
Passionflowers cartwheel down mountainsides
y guatines chitter and prey on unsuspecting limes.
You tell me even though the sun holds itself imposing
and our arms are poxed with the pricks of crawlies
and money is but ash on a zephyr adrift--
No matter the falling iguanas.
Here is where the song is sweet.
Here is where the stars are clear.