A few km outside the center of Jacmel. The river flooded and wiped out buildings along the banks. These kids were chopping up a fallen tree with a machete to make charcoal, a task that would take hours.
crack of thunder unleashed the deluge
voided with such ferocity
boomeranged from paved over
pooled into rivers of latte-coloured torrents;
The diving bell spider refuses to live on land.
Instead, it spins a silk bubble to breath underwater.
The window is a time-lapse lens gutting
people in the street and there is nothing in this
room but pain curetting round the curtains and a nurse
The Poem is Over
The poem is over,
its day come and gone.
This announcement is
to comfort the reader,
the dying reader.
The mink shouldered out of its cage,
paced four meters square.
I admired the indexed spine. The guard hairs
slick. The mouth
There are men in my house today
They unload glass panes and aluminum
frames, ladders, saws, crowbars and
lime-coloured insulation, some