Let the cerement of light, the silent snow covering the bells frozen in the towers, speak a country of tired bays, where rain hesitates to break the seamless yellow of toil; let this coffin-shaped light balance on the negative compass, the shock and stun, the heart’s sudden brace for a jealous thunder, childhood’s hands clapping in the assembly of absence, rejoicing in the clarity of hunger and fired clay. Let the hands be wings to lift out of water a rippled name—jangle of bells—left untended like a wheat field, swath of light, violet stains, the night someone wiped their hands on. Let the stray goat be recalled, and the mango tree violated for its bastard fruit, recall the army of cane flags that marched through dreams, saluted by silver-edge cutlasses at morning. O envy of sea, binding and separating islands, husk envy at every accent’s core, their fiber glint after rum flasks break their seals and rivers let down their hair between shallow gullies. Let not the blank of winter forget the buried glass; let it pull blood out of any pilgrim who goes there and marks a way back by the body’s scent and light, distended by a melting brook.