The Russian poet said in Paris
she felt like an iceless polar bear.
One drifts on a flow, piece of the Artic
jigsaw puzzle, like a beach surfer rides
a board. A fan coral in Anguilla is
bleached snow white as the Gulf streams
tepid water. A school of rabbitfish are
brushstrokes in a sky, as they run to Canada.
The fallen palmetto tree bars the road,
nature blocks man’s journey. The Make
Way sign down. The Ber News photos
peaceful without humans on South Shore.
Just nature roaring through, one poinciana
branch, a large lizard knocked out of its
domain without anything to hold onto.
The video I watch shows casuarinas fidgety
around houses, lively as baby fingers above
a pram as the wind bawls. On the lawn at
Inwood, a fallen paw paw fruit and trunk,
bat and ball left out in the rain. A friend
tells me the earth is trying to get rid of us.
Here, an uprooted mangrove tree is
the storm’s wishbone, keen to eliminate
occupants. One roof wrapped in plastic,
like an islander might wind around
the head in a squall, turquoise as a surgical
cap after chemotherapy. In the bright
sunshine and quiet, after Hurricane Humberto
has gone back out to sea, left the island
with palms bent over, converts to a
ruthless doctrine, the white washed
roofs line up into paper soldier hats.
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