Island prose

Monkey nuts dangle dry

out of season.

Bursting swollen seeds

like deflated balloons.

A wandering boy,

with a wandering eye

wonders what the foreign girl is doing

on a island

among hundreds of solitary islands

perched on a tree


with the lapping waves and setting sun.

“Just answers” replies the breeze.

The world is run on good deeds

and a trust

that you can be

boat-less and stranded

in good faith,

in vulnerability;

defenseless and unprepared.

Who would know if I died out here?

Not a soul. Not a soul.


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