So someone throws a stone at his window, a senseless act
since smashed glass loses love recycling value. Once past
the shock there's recoil at what looks like ingratitude
considering how much travel he'd invested ̶ the good
doctor; he could scalpel humours with a shaman's feel to heal.
This is why they come back, redressing to blend in, roles
of comraderie contracted; put humbly, home again hands
hard on the teat of weaning service.
What an arc, young Castro.
In these parts there's not enough land mass for patriots
true like you.
In time, though, you might sense momentum falter; fingers
grasping bare root stump toe scuffing smooth talk all you
want for hold. Aura, it seems, doesn't always help you sir
past rankled line servers. So much too late to learn back.
Certainly, one could argue, one hoped to foot print about with
out power strip trip or faith trick under mine.
Just one blinder of trust is all it takes to tilt ship shape up
side down, propellers air writhing; how, kaisomen steuups,
could a charterer not see that coming.
No, they can't make you divest fresh habits of chewing; reach
for the gravy, your entrails on the plate.
And, hear nah, before
you know it, throat tenure's up, you're another old man waiting
to be admitted: a case of Saman tree silence ̶ leaf distribution
done! ̶ base stop for some upstart dog leg initializing; or
drag yuh tale, drag yuh tale.
Feel the town beach prayer mills grinding? plumb
the ground: the vendors of tribe face lift, the cans of prude
on shelf; core improperties like tract infection, the scratch
that, closing time, takings to add.
– W.W.
HINT
Fallen leaves that lead back to the tree also
extend from it, as much as do full branches,
as issues of the map of its utterance,
the way the stars that seem random are balanced
by a centre whose nature it is to keep
dividing itself into more and more points
of light so that we shall uncover never
any absolute but the hint of its winks.
(from "The Gift Of Screws" by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 