a windsurfer fulcrums board & sail over the crystal waters of the bay & lifts
from a pulse of the ocean to float from mundanity of wind-power into airborne princess-
     kissed tailless amphibian
regal under the sun’s play from the waves
the soft light of another fading day scattering a late radiation
over the beautiful me
over the beautiful you
over the beautiful people thronging the sand cocktails in hand half-coconut cupped
& brought to us by smiling employees the bland affluence of our two-week nothing-to-do
springboard-bellyflopping into the hotel pool the water swiftly slapping together
in its chlorine-scented wake
ours this week & a half of reclining while trying
to show anyone watching how deep our pleasure plummets
as the day is packed away by more smiling employees
employees who have been underpaid to keep smiling as they undertake to sweep the beach

of every cigarette butt every empty half coconut-shell cocktail receptacle
every half-thought-through notion of tropical paradise as we ignore
any & all unfairness that may make affordable a flight halfway round a planet
& imprisoned
within a compound of luxury chalets
nothing more
to do but climb into the chauffeur-driven golf-cart
& have the driver ask how we’re enjoying ourselves so far
which of the restaurants we’d like tonight perhaps Le Récit?
it’s that or El Cuento or Il Raconto either way the same as what we ate
not more than three-odd days ago & though we’re aware what is seen through its window
does not always reveal the nature of an establishment’s entrails
the maître d’ gently guides us to a table in the middle of the room
away from whatever business ends the restaurant may contain & I ask for breadsticks

with a seeming carelessness
the illusion of myself as man remaining undisturbed
obviously a man with stupendously ripped abdominals
& a ridiculously small pair of swimming shorts as we sit & wait to be fed
the man with the abs & the teeny bathing costume kicking down through crystal waters
    to the nearby coral reef
wearing only a snorkel two flippers
& as I may have already mentioned a very petit pair of trunks
diving deep deeper as both he & the sea hold their breaths & we clink our glasses of
     fizzy wine
& I dip my spoon into the soup bowl of my imagination & the man flexes
those ripped tummy muscles as he twists & picks up the trap in which are caught
the unfortunate delicacies the waiter brings steaming & well-presented to the clean china plates 

laid on our table & I am busy listening to the conversation just to the rear & slightly to the
     right of our own
another couple discussing how lovely it has been how they do not want to go
& I am filled with pity for them & joy for us & is it always like this? you ask 

& I wonder what you mean & you say tell me about the man
with the snorkel & flippers & insufficient swimwear
& I
unaware I had spilled his skin-diving equipment
sculpted midriff & miniscule bathers
onto the starched white tablecloth between us
say oh
I guess what with tonight’s catch already in the kitchen he’s nodded his goodbyes
to the head chef & skipped barefoot to the end of the jetty & after gazing for a moment &
      lovingly at the star-bejewelled sky
dived into a riptide to shimmer with the fish
& you relax back into your seat & close your eyes & smile as the man butterflies into      your synapses
& the couple behind us brush past as they leave & it’s now
I know I need abutment
as the waiter returns & asks if we’d like to see the cakes