An Insular Tahiti

Tahiti. Your Emerson Melville Shelley on a stick. There is no place for Hegel. His and hers are the banks

of the river which never touch, though the body of water knows them to be one the same

as the left hand holds the right the foot of the island elided is reef.

So green, you think, this is green’s green, all the otherartists will love it! Later there can be ecstasy,

paradise, the moment. Anticipation for now— the noise the birds make in love with the mirror of the lake.

Without end there is no delay. Without delay, thunder lies on light like a lover in a practical way.

The island breathes and the trees receive it. All is sensible, even sensuality. Danger is accordingly

everywhere and nowhere and that’s where he left you, alone with your baby, on the subway.