Your poetry sounded like spoken salsa.
I am in love with your language, courtesies,
Hospitality, the way you spoke to me.
I could write like this for a very long time
And I could even write like this in rhyme.
Through the traffic of Caracas, I overheard
The song of the improbable linnet,
And the sorrows of Bolivar, of whom,
I’m far from fit to speak – a man my size,
With a dead love, but a real hero.

‘O brave new world that has such noises in it!’

I could wear a brimmed hat and smoke cigars
On a verandah in my coffee plantation
(If I had one) holding up my rum punch
To catch the sunset in its tawny depths.

I could do that. I could do lots of things.
But probably, I’ll do nothing at all.
There’s something in me that insists it sings
Freely, for nothing, the lovely, lonely art
Called poetry, an art you understand.

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