I

It’s possible to lose an island.

Peacock Island went missing

for a century that often goes missing:

the seventeenth. I too have that power—

I disappear by letting the gaze

of a man skitter past me

as I focus entirely on myself.

In a bar. On the Bahn. In the breast

it’s arousal’s nemesis.

When you remember an island

it comes back as blank slate. Boom:

A mistress. A circus. A fancy

garden. I’m no fancy garden,

but when I remember my fleshy flesh

and someone’s gaze confirms it Boom

in the blood—a squelch of interruption.

Anger-cousin. The clock. The boobs.

I’ve been to Breast Island, Blood

Island, Blah Island, and I’ve slurped my anger

on each: I must have one body while islands

have so many. Forget this body,

I say stepping onto the boat that cuts

the river. But ten seconds later

I dock on Peacock Island still skin

swathed, still missing myself as a century

of abandoned land until the peacocks

lurch from me in fear. Boom: They should.

 II

An island is a dark glass.

An island is a dark glass.

A title is circle.

A peacock bisects it.

A peacock is a man.

An island becomes him.

A language is weather.

A language is weather.

A river is history.

A bomb sinks into it.