My wife and child are deep in conspiracy with coconuts 

The palms outside are whispering their violet secrets to the gentle Balinese light 

and the world is just as it should be,

just as its always been
 

The love that flows between its spectacles 

is not some grande act

and it is not a vital show
 

It is the sound of my daughter giggling as the soft white flesh of a young coconut

glides down the back of her throat 
 

It is the sound of the palms— 

gently, gently—

welcoming me home