It was lizard hour in the lanai.
The lizards were running back and forth
on the white ceramic tiles, under the white
wrought iron chairs. The smell of the earth
rose evening-deep from the corner beds.
It was a Roman hour
of twilit clarity: air
like white wine, the palm fronds
darkening in sky’s apricot afterglow,
white villas across the lagoon
revealing as in a dream the mathematical
purity of their lines and spacing.
It was an hour free of sediment
or sentiment. Pure as a baby’s yawn.
Without price. A thing in itself,
like a marbled egg, reflecting
things-in-themselves. It did not
want for anything. It was not
to be bought or sold, and nothing
needed to be bough on its account.
In it nothing was quite real, but things
were as they seemed. A languid hour
in the lanai on the lagoon.