|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Andre Bagoo |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
From Kiskadee Redhead
Bay, Cumana
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
From Kiskadee
I I am not here I am not me this is not my country the rivers and the streams they do not meet the sea the rain comes down heavy but not for me III Two weeks later, I woke I smelled smoke the kind you cannot see kiss me, kiskadee the kind you cannot see though you know you can be free you know a bush fire is raging I go flying the asphalt roads are streams I watch him each day like a mirror he answers two weeks later, I turn to check, to see is he next to me? |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Redhead Bay, Cumana Even the beach is deceptive a piece of wood turns into a dolphin a rock becomes soft clay all things come undone at Redhead Bay I go, I go, I go, I go— exploring a mile I’ll never know every beach has no end I cannot escape you but the long day must end in a few hours, the water takes back everything the blue rope it snakes ashore sea-coconuts rolling, like skulls, back to sea bottles and rubbish that never really disappear they will disappear until then, write it in sand be equal to the pale classes, and the other men surf the hills that are green waves though nobody hears, nobody sees what else are we supposed to do if not climb the almond trees? |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|