Summer for prose and lemons, for nakedness and languor.
The future happens. No matter how much we scream.
Time is the metre, memory the only plot.
The voice does go up in a poem. It is an address, even if it is to oneself.
There's always more to see.
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.