Some sense of unending peace in the

gentle rhythm of the swish and roll,

an ancient field of blue diamonds jagged protruded

of a temperate sea stage set for the damselfly

dance of a fisherman’s boat quietly sailing,

an island the smell of cracked spices and wine,

where everyone loves everyone,

where the houses are all big enough

and the unceasing stomp of time is

opportunity more than consequence–

to sit still and ignore the noise and the rumblings

is the perfect way to spend a day

living beneath an active volcano,

and the engagements of demigods and the like

resist human conformity and stillness.

Phaethon needs to ride his father’s chariot,

its horses will never be tame,

the top of this mountain needs to blow,

Atlantis is always sinking.