Before God made light, he planted a beachside resort 

on an invisible coastline. For protection, for indulgence, 

for that seventh day of rest. Fragrant, fallow with grass, 

each marble column of the palazzo floor cutting into the sky. 

May tide, drawn-out like silk string on every private balcony. 

Bone lattice bedrooms and birdsong. Painted Venice melting

into glazed chiffon, here, dead pelicans draw dried grass 

into nests. On the sand; clothes optional. Supermodels

and margaritas mingling. Pools, teal-kidneys, gardens 

terraced into a million stands of citrus groves. Below, fields

and insecticide, lush fruit blooming like wildfire.