As dawn divides the sea
from firmament,
the island appears

to float above the indigo shimmer,
if there is no fog
to make us forget.

Clear days the joke revives—
The island is uninhibited—
for only in dreams is it peopled.

Just last night a tribe of irrepressible
hominids with blue abdomens
and flourishing sex lives

held the island in peaceable thrall.
On waking I recalled its bombing
had been stopped, and, without jest,

the island’s been re-christened Desecheo
Wildlife Refuge. Unexploded shells
erupt like family secrets.

None are permitted to visit
to tell what flora and fauna persist.
It must be that mosquitoes

rise after rains from the craters
we hope are filling with fish.
We want to imagine mosses and vines

claiming shivered trees,
lizards skittering among the rubble,
and a race of carefree people.