Island

I am angry at the slow car in front of me
and the fast one behind.
I am angry at the ghost of fortune
which I chase unceasingly, 
and the ghost of decay
which chases me.
I am angry at myself
for my habit of wishing
and at the wind of those wishes
which blows my sails apart.

Tonight, my love smells of coconut,
my cat of seashells.
A small and distant telescope
looks at me back through my dreams.
Someday, I will watch my life
in one ebony moment.
I will laugh at my anger,
sew any regret into
the seams of a new cloth.

Just for tonight
I wade ashore,
tell stories
in the flickering firelight.