On the Island of Merciful God

I carry myself like a black casketacross the streets, my stepsan off-key requiem. This hothemisphere moors beneathevery palm tree that lesionsthe light-shot sky. Broken neonsspell weed or love, but neither free.For want of human touch, massagechairs recline foolish at every parlor.Andaman Sea strikesa funereal note—If only I could cutthe air and midwife a sunrise,before which I'll fall to my knees,not praying, but offering myselfuntethered from life.Long ago, I was a son who failedto grow up; now I'm a man grownused to failure. Lines on my palmsbifurcate in the middle. Suddenlythe foghorn wrestles briny air.I'm squatting dog-wise in frontof a currency exchange booth, not knowingwhat to expect from any kind man.The quiet night journeys to a cold end.