You can't write drunk.
Summer for prose and lemons, for nakedness and languor.
The first thing we have to do is get rid of the pentameter. To ditch the pentameter.
The word and the shadow of the word / makes a thing both itself and something else / till we are metaphors and not ourselves . . .
The poem is itself a mirror.
The sigh of History rises over ruins, not over landscapes, and in the Antilles there are few ruins to sigh over, apart from the ruins of sugar estates and abandoned forts.