One drum of dark oil bubbles on the beach
and everyone loves to travel,
       even if it's only half a mile
       and in the middle of summer,
to run away, around

this sinking island
pocked with coral
and ruined by rum—
but who can resist it,
whatever the shack in the sand offers up
and you have to try it
before the rest of the world shows up
in the same boat
under the glass of the moon, half full,
sweating over
the crab traps, just a touch
of slappy music, far-off now,
some small talk, and listen, last call
so pay the man
before everyone leaves
their shells in the sand, and paper plates
feel lost, but forget it.
The stars slosh around while
the oil calms down
to a glisten, un-

congealed.