Horny, half-mad,
the smell of old flowers
encases
this man’s room
like an anonymous
tomb—miracle
to be alive
and then to die. In the thick
of an island thick
with a history
that belongs to
everyone and no one,
feral goats shit and mate
and clamber in dust,
kicking it up.
Don’t you hate animals?
Don’t you hate
being an animal?
His animal?
Still it feels good
when the sun comes up
and warms the bed
like the cold surface
of the ancient ocean.