It is terrible, being on an island so beautiful unable
to write a poem for this metropolis of birds singing
in the almond trees or the web of heat wrapped
over flesh & plants & countless fireflies flitting
along my insides & I try to describe the peace of poverty
& I end up making it ugly. Maybe that's why I can't
write what a poet should: my Western ugliness, here,
where a gecko is called a Woodslave & a bird—a Gustav.
How should a mind of city steel & glass begin writing
a poem to an island whose people are only background
for the dripping green bush fed on rivers of cloud water
given by mountains covered in mangos & guavas?
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I'm in the Caribbean again. Trying to write.