I was touching oranges every morning and throwing nightly my head back in the company of tossed off grenadiers.  the hotel staff boys and girls alike would come into my room naked showing their teeth to me as smuggled envelopes.  an oil soaked rope ladder moved with the wind under my window gifting the square shouldered gardeners with black dots deeper than any woman.  if the hotelier was on holiday it would fall to me to schedule any hanging that had been postponed- seven men, one woman, I’m not proud.  I wrote eight poems that year, one for each blade-followed blade of the slow fan sipping at the maid’s diamond drunk back.  when the man I worked for brought his men I jumped into the pool, it was lunchtime, and came up swallowing and came up collared inexplicably by my trunks and for this many raised a glass because it took many to raise it.