Blue Visits

The drowned won't stop circling
my island. Their eyes are not
perfect pearls; their hearts are not

secret volcanoes. There is no path
for them to join us on brief beaches
where we light illogical fires to keep

the living drunk and singing aloud.
Retroflexed driftwood disturbs with
its plainness, purity. Sometimes

shells offer words, but the noise
of this nilpotent world overwhelms
the fragile gates of the inner ear.

Copyright © 2006 Rane Arroyo All rights reserved
from Beloit Poetry Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission