Some thing has taken the place
of the bougainvillea, something biblical. Teeth
have taken out vibrant lumps
like prehensile, opaque
starfish. Some thing has crazed the bark,
quelling its wear
-ability. Blood will tell
toll the fronds of a Cuban Royal under
which the man sporting a tanga tans. Tang of charcoal sports and falls.
If some thing can insinuate
itself between thorny green bones
then the stones
concealing black field crickets
that squeal (you say) like next door’s babies or
coal train brakes will incinerate among
antique crackled bowls
and daytime’s undertones run.
Alice Coltrane spun once,
in the barmy reefer spring
—‘Isis and Osiris’ did
its nut. No balm for the lip
of the nearby reef, each tapered flower galactic-white,
of this paperflower one
hell of a black. Once a person
-age, the staggering tanned man whose cat-tails
droop and doll eyes bobble below a moon austere
as porcelain. Its water
-dolise gravity. For the hearts’ doorstep
this is neither here nor there.
You and I live in a glasshouse
—hordes of digs. Some thing at the dead centre of us
digs in heels. The bougainvillea heals, heals.