Becoming the outside

Is this where I’m most at ease?
In a nature both embalmed and visceral.
Glazed in Saharan dust.
Unable to sleep at night, sensitised to the wild nothingness.

Island solitude feels like embodying oblivion.
The riotous wind sounds centuries of whistles across volcanic earth:

a synthesis of black lava and busted hotels.
Their interiors are so sparse they become the outside.
Inside, I am the same.

Here, possessions are obsolete.
Yet plastics still commune by the waves.

Still, the rocks
– steadfast minerals that once flowed –
are unmoved.
Still, my spirit is.