The black isles of the Galapagos breathe off clouds.
They deter the crowds by creating halos of their own induction.
Providing shade and moisture they conceal their growth.
They Move.
Giants roam the earth above and below pyroclastic flows.
At the airport, I saw an albino ape that walked and talked like a man.
For three days we tried and tried and tried.
And one night, we came in with the red tide, but couldn’t tell who died.
While scavenging Panama, I saw a man who walked like an ape.
He didn’t say anything at all, he just pointed and waved.
Here it is the second month and twenty four days, going for two out of the three ways.
Back and forth through locks that look like gates with numbers but no names.
While we wait outside this great place,
Stuck in purgatory our souls do ache.
Longing for travel through sweet water to sea water of the Atlantic taste.
