Island

in which my race has developed.

Curving and lifting, the street

takes off past.

Will it achieve the exhausted waters

underneath the far off mango trees?

Scents of consumed earth and salt cod

floating under the gag of thirst.

A grin part the ready coco-plum

of a matured face.

The unclear supplication of smoke-trails.

Mourn of a drawn out neighing

that scales the sides of the gorges.

Voices of rum

with their relax

warming our ears.

Rattle of dominoes rifling the feathered creatures' rest.

Calypso rhythms

in the warm gut of our banjos.

Chuckling of want in the profound inner parts of the night.

Mouths kept from bread

swilling the shoddy liquor

of words.

The island pushing towards morning

its weight of mankind.