Prospero

The thrill of this island isn't its brittle stab at the conclusive; joy is magic. Joy is the elusive. An illusive, I know no better trick than furtive cool air up from the sea, warm air trapped on land: a ploy for vanishing the definitive, for veiling, as a hand is veiled by the periphery before a slap, the cliffs you and I climb to watch whatever ship I choose to sink. Cloud-shaped, my eyes. Hands, your incentive. Have you noticed, forced through time, how light refracts our prison's limits and curving back proves the sky again? Fog is the island's pall. Every morning wed, by afternoon at the sun-given reception, the island strips its daze and swoons like a virgin. We give us to us, you and I. At the brink of every morning we walk as brides on stone to our shell altar, and say, I do, I do to each other.