Hands up, feet in sand,
stray sticks from the nearby
forest in hair, bromeliad
blooming on your dress—  

you are done with indoor
complaints, like Whitman
was all those years ago
because it is everyone’s
right to throw away
the canoe & sail on  

& you know you contain
a thousand passionflowers
with wavy blue threads
reaching out to lick air  

& you know you contain
a million bat flowers
with purpled wings
& whiskers like tentacles  

& at night you carry torch
ginger with a fragrant cone
& red leather skirt-petals  

& you wake up with hoya-
hair—pink clusters falling
to waist while hummingbirds
feast on the centers.  

That’s what you must do,
savor the centers of
everything—
palm/artichoke/cloud/
cat pounce/mountain/
hooded warbler’s weeta-
weeta-weet-tee-o.  

Now gleam, briny, burnished
by sun, follow wave back
to shaggy shore
of self.