Revolution
The reef
releases its anatomy.
Brain-stem corals
buckle in the
breakers, and seaweed hanks the undertow.
The lee wind
trowels a long cloud westerly.
Which way the
sea lanes to my return − Cuba,
and the
cocktails of yellow stars?
Catalpas dapple
burning flesh −
these others −
regrouped too late
behind windbreak
succulents and Delphic domes,
consider the
hummingbird’s diminuendos,
its dollop
jades, through lenses
polarizing
spit-curl wave from wave,
and sea from
sky, and these inventions
from the lizard
groves of changeful light.
The Spanish wrecks are silted.
The horizon swallows a red sail.
Where is the
sun, tempered in noon’s white noise,
that proves this
revolution?
I stand at the
reef’s edge, urchin,
and sink through
deeper blues.
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