Palms stand in lonely opposition.
A band comes in,
Merengue, as from the sea,
Then sirens.
Some invisible anxiety
Pervades the day
From somewhere.
Everyone itches to move
But none want to blow away.
The birds veer from their trajectories.
The palms succumb finally,
Their blades run like centipedes,
Play furioso,
Swaying to wave it away.
It's a place in between,
A place of balancing.
The squall gets all of the drape,
It falls gently on a string.
Bonfires have already begun on the beach.
The palms turn golden, then red,
Still holding to a tether.
Contentment is like death,
But when you move
What moves with you?
