Even from the beach I could sense it-- 
lack of welcome, lack of abiding life, 
like something in the air, a certain 
lack of sound. Yesterday 
there was a mountain out there. 
Now it's gone. And look 

at this radio, each tube neatly 
sliced in half. Blow the place up! 
That was my advice. 
But after the storm and the earthquake, 
after the tactic of the exploding plane 
and the strategy of the sinking boat, it looked 

like fate and I wanted to say, "Don't you see? 
So what if you are a famous biochemist! 
Lost with all hands is an old story." 
Sure, we're on the edge 
of an important breakthrough, everyone 
hearing voices, everyone falling 

into caves, and you're out 
wandering through the jungle 
in the middle of the night in your negligée. 
Yes, we're way out there 
on the edge of science, while the rest 
of the island continues to disappear until 

nothing's left except this 
cliff in the middle of the ocean, 
and you, in your bathing suit, 
crouched behind the scuba tanks. 
I'd like to tell you 
not to be afraid, but I've lost 

my voice. I'm not used to all these 
legs, these claws, these feelers. 
It's the old story, predictable 
as fallout--the rearrangement of molecules. 
And everyone is surprised 
and no one understands 

why each man tries to kill 
the thing he loves, when the change 
comes over him. So now you know 
what I never found the time to say. 
Sweetheart, put down your flamethrower. 
You know I always loved you.