For the ones who whistle while uprooting pineapples
or clambering over basalt sculptures up Mauna Kea;

for the ones who tuck belly flesh into red shorts 
and walk the ocean on yellow planks; 

for the ones who slide on earthen pine needles
cascading loose rocks down Mount Olympus;

I see the wallowing faces in the canal reflection. 

Where, then, is paradise? 

Between the lines of gritted sweat that streaks a face
lined like sidewalk chalk? Underneath the sleeping dog 
who curls up tight against his bridge-like master? Tucked
high above in the zebra dove’s nest, cozy against cold metal? 

I see the faces in the canal reflection. 
Where, then, is paradise? 


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: