Man, I suck me tooth when I hear How dem croptime fiddlers lie, And de wailing, kiss-me-arse flute… That bring water to me eye! Oh, when I t’ink how from young

Where are your monuments, your bat… Where is your tribal memory? Sirs… in that gray vault. The sea. The… has locked them up. The sea is Hi… First, there was the heaving oil,

Koening knew now there was no one… Entering its brown mouth choking w… and curtained with midges, Koenig… past the abandoned ferry and the f… coated with coal dust. Staying abo…

The last leaves fell like notes fr… and left their ovals echoing in th… with gawky music stands, the winte… looks like an empty orchestra, its… ruled on these scattered manuscrip…

There were still shards of an anci… in those shires of the island wher… their pools of shadow from an olde… surviving from when the landscape… ‘Herefords at Sunset in the valle…

[for Alix Walcott] Between the vision of the Tourist… Paradise lies the desert where Is… force a rose from the sand. The th… cores the dawn clouds with concent…

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

A wind is ruffling the tawny pelt Of Africa, Kikuyu, quick as flies… Batten upon the bloodstreams of th… Corpses are scattered through a pa… Only the worm, colonel of carrion,…

After that hot gospeller has level… I wrote the tale by tallow of a ci… Under a candle’s eye, that smoked… Wanted to tell, in more than wax,… All day I walked abroad among the…

though our longest sun sets at rig… makes but winter arches, it cannot be long before we lie do… have our light in ashes. . . Browne, Urn Burial

BOOK SIX Chapter XLIV In hill-towns, from San Fernando… the same sunrise stirred the feath… down the archipelago’s highways. T…

Night, the black summer, simplifie… into a village; she assumes the im… musk of the negro, grows secret as… her alleys odorous with shucked oy… coals of gold oranges, braziers of…

You can’t put in the ground swell… from the Christiansted, St.Croix,… behind the paratrooper’s voice: ‘T… after Vietnam. I made thirty jump… Bells punish the dead street and p…

Better a jungle in the head than rootless concrete. Better to stand bewildered by the fireflies’ crooked street; winter lamps do not show

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