Monday, February 20, 2006


Twin nudes on sand
melt into ochre clouds and pelicans
fly north.

Helicopters buzz south,
watching for rafts
of refugees
dreaming of rum.

“Where are we going, where have we come from?”
asks one, sun drunk from
ray banned images floating off the salted
sea as the heat kneads pellets of sweat
into brown backs and legs spread on towels.

Jazz seeps out of a radio.

The older turns,
Her breasts falling to the earth
gazes into her brother’s eyes,
a mirror
a pool of water,
“We come from this.”

A fist full of sand
onto the blanket.

“That’s just sand.”

She springs into the surf,
And returns dripping water.

“That’s just mud.”

“Just mud?” she asks,

and covering it
with her hand.

Copyright © 2004 by Keith William Harvey. All rights reserved.

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