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Morne Celeste
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Hyacinth garden Her supple lips and sweet wet breath, seemed so apropos
My knees greet genuflection but present myths reflect in vermilion overflow
as red tears flowed down around her breast
“the sky is backwards”! I said, to Morne Celeste
She was born too late and I was born too soon
now those breakers are smashing against the dune
gunny sack full of promises they end as they begin
it seems she had to leave, this is where I take it on the chin
my acceptance as a poet is somewhat in doubt
because those three words always get tossed about
to live in trouble, in agony and in pain
until you flirt with shadows that drive you insane
