There are times when the water is a perfect mirror, when setting sunlight is scattered into a million hues, and when clouds drift so low that one feels one could jump up to scratch cloud belly, and in those moments the world looks fake, but feels more real than ever.
Maybe there’s no moving mountains,
but blow out the clouds and one may appear.
Out of the wall of white comes a rocky shoulder,
clad in spiky pines and stony protrusions.
Up high and dry on a desert plateau,
where robust patches of grass dot bare soil
and rare oases form a green tableau
while desolate sands will not storm or roil.
The rippling temple flags, their color shows,
contrasting colors concrete as gargoyles.
The scrubland’s beauty is without dispute.
Here flags and flowers colors won’t dilute.
There was a salesman from Belize City
who called it: “where noir meets gritty,”
which means a crap-hole
that’ll suck out your soul.
Move on, the rest of the country is so pretty.
I am a master of camouflage.
Blink and I’ll have vanished.
My stripy suit may make you think
that I have been banished
from the savanna to some jail,
but I’m still standing here.
Can you see me blending so well?
“Poof,” and I disappear.
In the hour of now and forever more,
I went in through the window, but out through the door.
At least I prayed it’d go that way,
leaving by light of sun’s first ray.
Now you’re thinking ’twas foul play —
that I’ll be caught by light of day.
But maybe I’m past catching?
