They dream me again, those tin-roof dreams sewn together with rain and calls of tree frogs. Alleyways look bricked with brown rice cakes. At night, at closing time, restaurant workers throw bags of unsold food away though there are hungry urchins at every street corner. It might not be the end of hurricane season yet, but the vaulted skies are indifferent to our need for calendars. Dark leaves flap in the wind; they know not to be seduced by the celluloid blush at the edge of the sea. Do you hear how wings slice the air into ribbons, even as they lift? Before any cathedral, first there is light buried in stone.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
