Blood Songs and other Poems
We pretend we own the island.
We build malls where sugar once sang in the air,
boardwalks where fishermen once fixed their battered nets.
But the beasts remember.
Even now, under the new hotels, the new laws,
the old breath of the island stirs.
A wildness we cannot pave over.
A truth older than asphalt.
A kingdom of things that never needed our permission.
