Three masses of gas
are suspended over the riverlake.

The trunks, underneath, rub and rub.
I’m in a floating house.

I hear the frogs.
Bats crown my ceiling.

                 [This hammock is heaven.]

Morning, timidly, courts the dark grey masses in the sky.

The wind, silences the frogs.
It’s the end of their all-nighter.

Logs, crunch, rub, crunch
beneath my island house.

                 [This terrace is bliss.]

I see now just one iridescent mass of air.
The clouds are getting whiter.

No croaks. Just tweets
and the wind, howling.

The water moves, underneath.
I smell of musty sheets.

A beasty branch passes.
She is a serpent, or a croc, without eyes.

I’m suspended on air
tasting the slow dawn.

Gas, and rot, and leaves and bugs
humid timber
witness with me, these first,

Amazonian lights.