Dead Man’s Float details that sad emblem of Western alienation, the tourist couple in their rented tropical Eden. Here life is temporary and not at all cheap. The wildlife is spectacular, the culture incomprehensible, and the locals politely try to hide their hilarity at Canadian pidgin Spanish. Heat, beaches, ruins – why did we think they could distract us from domestic squabbling or the 3 a.m. dreads?

Derk Wynand wrings wry existential meditations from firsthand experience of the Exotic – the First World and the Third in their ritual winter dance.

How could anyone
not adore you,
little devourer of
large moths, sticky
ceiling-hanger, light-
lurker, master of
stillness whenever it
suits you?
…
Even the steady ocean
wobbles, the surf breaking harder on the ear,
on the rocks below. All night, the night looms
loud and large, providing only small silences
for a gecko maybe feeling small, and lacking
the comforts of religion or politics or family.

— from “Gecko”