-Donovan's Proem-
Are a local, standing up in a truck-bed
At one rounded edge of the island
Of unrested Barbados, the hero Bible Black
In Donovan's Proem, and does not pretend
What a mirage of men must tend.
Not these creaking works, thin tin
Stockades, ones painted tawny to ensure
There, at their corners, no collapses
Whatever says he to the mind
A solid square stone of world has built.
But this deafening clings, it croaks, cloaks the night here
In sounds, sonar's swoops and her swings outwards.
Here, the palm is not without the work of dust
To catch a little red fruit in the wind
What is kept virile green and plotted in pots
By a single local wandering in thoughts
Of Marlon Brando, and not Thoreau
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