Executing the Trade

by Bill Yarrow

Prospero's in his cell and I'm in mine. 
He drowns his books, I'm drowning in mine. 
He exercises his power—I'm powerless to exercise. 
The indigenous world's just not for us.

The oil dog barks at a wall of dried primer.
A stuck baffle in the duct. Escucha, joven:
do not accept the dry inevitability of
detachment or the ripe futility of lust.

But Ven! You are all invited to the rescue. 
Prospero smiles at the bulwarks, foreign
and domestic. He sees enchanted beings
benignly dance. I see a black lighthouse

at the end of a chocolate pier. Be an 
architect. Un arquitecto! Death  cautions:
"Cuidado! Beware the mindful brides."