Given
That the deck chair rocks in the wind
and paradisal light touches the gulls.
That the isle is enchanted, foams on waters.
Who are you to believe you are untrue
to yourself? Who must you be?
The breathing mouth and the whorled ears
will stop & indulgences of flesh,
sometimes a fever in the brain,
will melt like bread in water,
And body, brine on skin, all living fluids
evaporate, fall back into island soil.
Faith and love into atoms without form and limb.
And the sun into darkness and into sun.
That the heart isn't really pure; too meager,
yes. That the gulls lift suddenly, simply,
& call out horror & sweetness, facts of our fate.
And day lasts longest here
by this part of the island by the orange tree. . .