I look in the mirror. There's me. What's in the mirror is not real. So am I unreal?
The truth is that the poems are ecstatic.
Summer for prose and lemons, for nakedness and languor.
Visual surprise is natural in the Caribbean; it comes with the landscape, and faced with its beauty, the sigh of History dissolves.
Memory that yearns to join the centre, a limb remembering the body from which it has been severed, like those bamboo thighs of the god.
In Eden who sleeps happiest? The serpent.