No soul was ever invented, yet every presence is transparent; if I met her. that catch him right in the plump of his calf, and he faint so slowly, and he turn more white, than he thought he was. promise, to leave you the one thing I own, It had one bitch on board, like he had me mark—. As for that minister-monster who smuggled the booze, that half-Syrian saurian, I got so vex to see, that face thick with powder, the warts, the stone lids, like a dinosaur caked with primordial ooze. Like the man gone blind!”, “If we’s to drong, we go drong, Vince, fock-it!”, “Shabine, say your prayers, if life leave you any!”.

But that’s all them bastards have left us: words. I loved you alone and I loved the whole world. Where is the pillow I will not have to pay for. Peace in white harbours, in marinas whose masts agree, in crescent melons, left all night in the fridge, in the Egyptian labours. squirrels spring up like questions, berries easily redden.
All of these waves crepitate from the culture of Ovid, its sibilants and consonants; a universal metre, piles up these signatures like inscriptions of seaweed, that dry in the pungent sun, lines ruled by mitre, and laurel, or spray swiftly garlanding the forehead, of an outcrop (and I hope this settles the matter. just plenty blood, and Vincie and me best friend. worries his sleek head through the verge’s branches; crannies, culverts, and creeks roar with wrist-numbing water. Five years later, he borrowed $200 to print his first collection, 25 Poems, which he distributed on street corners. that shall spring from her grave from the spade’s heartbreak. They shine with defiance from weed and flower. for Thine is the Kingdom, the Glory, and the Power. He published his first poem in the local newspaper at the age... and leaves of brown islands stick to the rim, by the dreamless face of Maria Concepcion. with himself as chairman investigating himself.

of the soldiers’ progress through the thick leaves, though my heart was bursting, I get up and ran. was being organized to conduct a big quiz. the ants come to you like children, their beloved teacher. their faith that we break and chew in a wedge of cassava, and here at first is the astonishment: that earth rejoices, in the middle of our agony, earth that will have her. Also author of the play To Die for Grenada. There is no change now, no cycles of spring, autumn, winter. Faith grows mutinous. that there’d be no rest, there’d be no forgetting. That whole racket crash. for this morning’s sake, forgive me, coffee, and pardon me. Nothing is trite. Faced with seraphic radiance, (don’t interrupt! The sea blazes beyond the rust roofs, dark is on us. and the Scotch pouring in through the back door.
A next night I dreamed of three old women.

by standing still, the Budget turns a new leaf. like I was some artist! of presences). milk with two packets of artificial sugar, as I watch these lines grow and the art of poetry harden me, into sorrow as measured as this, to draw the veiled figure. with the traffic of insects going to work anyway. His work resonates with Western canon and Island influences, shifting between Caribbean patois and English, and often addressing his English and West Indian ancestry. The mango trees serenely rust when they are in flower, nobody knows the name for that voluble cedar. You see them on the low hills of Barbados. that stand on the verge of translating themselves into news: the crab, the frigate that floats on cruciform wings, and that nailed and thorn riddled tree that opens its pews. into a larger question, one that forms and unforms. and sneering centurion; then I believed in His Word. like two criminal. of cavalry under your cloak; come on now, enough! to love those trees with an inferior love, like cypresses, their hair hangs down in rain. beard beading with spray, tears salting his eyes, crucify to his post, that nigger hold fast. the dirt-clawing weasel, the blank owl or sunning seal. though infinity separates them, we can think of only one sun: all I am saying is that the dread of death is in the faces. their bounty! [The day, with all its pain ahead, is yours]. mercy on the mongoose scuttling past my door. as Shabine once knew them! but perhaps our sadness tires them who cherished delight; not only are they relieved of our customary sorrow. A man and his trotting dog come back from their garden. of reeds and stalk-crickets, fiddling the dank air, lacing his boots with vines, steering glazed beetles.


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