EVAN
WILLIAMS

Bad Island

–:––/–:––

Far from the mind now

are horse fins and fauna,

the ten clay otters

of madness.

We humped like sonnets

in the vales of sunrise.

A soul alit there from our egg,

a gang in the grass garden of them.

Beset by spring it sprang to life,

sordid, sprung upon as a sponge. A spreading pallor of palms.

–:––/–:––

Ghosts dream bluely in the dune. Blithe

in their tassels.

They sit upon the pith of fawns,

frowned and galactic.

I parse then preen in a giggle.

Borders fog up the limelight.

Then, a gala. Illumined

minnows mew below sardines

in a stained flax painting. The martyrs

sleep like dollhouses.

Solemn, but not sad so far.

A tall infection begins in the foaming dew. Two eyes open on a long face, looking for sea level.