Retreat into the palms
my dearest red-haired siren.
(It's always red hair isn't it, Ross?)
Back turned
away from steamboat thoughts.
Play your lovely instrument
(is it a guitar? a violin?)
its soft tones lifting up
with the birds of Paradise.
God
cannot see you
or sees you better.
Yes, you are more aware
of yourself away from civilization
that heavy burden
we beg for.
You could forever be my lovely here.
Blazing in the sun.
Paradise's Artemis,
A Goddess hiding in the Garden.
If you were me, or I you
were we each other
could I turn away from
Steamboat thoughts?
I could lure Ulysses
I could sound dangerous music.
Don't call them back,
tired of your island,
your handmaids of Paradise.
I don't want to have been wrong
to trust your image
if you are not a Goddess at all.
I might hate you
or I might love you
now that we've been thrust together.
Maybe I should have studied Elvis or Frieda
but I retreated into the palms
with you.