Old Eddie\'s face, wrinkled with river lights, Looked like a Mississippi man\'s. The eyes, Derisive and avuncular at once, Swivelling, fixed me.

A wind is ruffling the tawny pelt Of Africa, Kikuyu, quick as flies, Batten upon the bloodstreams of the veldt. Corpses are scattered through a

Those five or six young guys lunched on the stoop that oven-hot summer night whistled me over. Nice and friendly. So, I stop. MacDougal or

Broad sun-stoned beaches. White heat. A green river. A bridge, scorched yellow palms from the summer-sleeping house drowsing through

The time will come when, with elation you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror and each will smile at the other\'s

Where are your monuments, your battles, martyrs? Where is your tribal memory? Sirs, in that gray vault. The sea. The sea has locked them up. The

Night, the black summer, simplifies her smells into a village; she assumes the impenetrable musk of the negro, grows secret as sweat, her alleys

There are so many islands! As many islands as the stars at night on that branched tree from which meteors are shaken like falling fruit around the

The last leaves fell like notes from a piano and left their ovals echoing in the ear; with gawky music stands, the winter forest looks like an

Schizophrenic, wrenched by two styles, one a hack\'s hired prose, I earn me exile. I trudge this sickle, moonlit beach for miles, tan, burn to

When sunset, a brass gong, vibrate through Couva, is then I see my soul, swiftly unsheathed, like a white cattle bird growing more small over the

You can\'t put in the ground swell of the organ from the Christiansted, St.Croix, Anglican Church behind the paratrooper\'s voice: \"Turned

There is a shattered palm on this fierce shore, its plumes the rusting helm- et of a dead warrior. Numb Antony, in the torpor stretching her

After that hot gospeller has levelled all but the churched sky, I wrote the tale by tallow of a city\'s death by fire; Under a candle\'s eye, that

Those villages stricken with the melancholia of Sunday, in all of whose ocher streets one dog is sleeping those volcanoes like ashen roses, or

Koening knew now there was no one on the river. Entering its brown mouth choking with lilies and curtained with midges, Koenig poled the

As for that other thing which comes when the eyelid is glazed and the wax gleam from the unwrinkled forehead asks no more questions of the dry