A Collection of Poems

i Ash Wednesday and No one goes for cane in this island anymore.

Havana, Yasmine arrived one early evening, the stem of an orange dress, a duffle bag, limp, with no possessions

This is not a poem about the sound of my voice.

Branches draped elegiac, possessive as lovers.

Notes of evening             play upon sand,                         scatter dried stars                                     from treetops.

You insisted you spoke for your time. Well, it is now, Fanon. Like foolish masons, we build on the sand of false hierarchies,

My Tanty used to sing/pray evening ragas to the Earth Goddess morning oblations to the Sun God

You silver gods, with viscous black innards, skin of iron plates and bones of steel rivets,

it isn't matter isn't doesn't matter does it compared with what shan't have known your lines are all lines of approach...

Night drinks salt water from a bucket, draws a sleeve from the sea, spills hand across mouth.

This city is beauty unbreakable and amorous as eyelids, in the streets, pressed with fierce departures, submerged landings, I am innocen...