Deserted Islands

On these islands,

there are no palm trees

bending like ballerinas

in the ocean breeze.

Here, men refuse to stare

at blondes in bikinis,

who spread their legs

and smooth Moroccan oil

across tanned thighs.

On these islands,

there are no sounds of children

launching volleyballs into clear air,

which fall back to earth

like waning moons at dawn.

Here, parents drift from shore

in leaking boats

waving to children

standing on barren beaches.

On these islands,

there is no cause and effect,

no ‘if this, then that’,

no polar opposites.

Here, patterns disintegrate,

numbers crunched

break into pieces - unaccounted for -

and are lost to the waves

pulling back

from the eroding shores.