A small light, fugitive, peers,
picks out a palm-bole,
breadfruit green as a snake.
The nightwatchman is on his rounds, his right arm
heavy with its thousand years.
The dark keeps pace behind
his left shoulder. For an instant
on my white wall in a white square
shadows of palm-fronds
struggle with the wind.
The Caribbean hides its colors,
talks, talks; the broken moon
scatters its bits on black. Here cocks
crow all night and dogs that slept
in the sedative sun, bark in the hills, bark, bark.
I ask of the watchman the seasoned
question: What of the night? From what
will he protect me? Other questions:
Where did she go? Is the mongoose
nocturnal? What should we have done?
Dogged as cock or dog his light will return.
Protection! Protection? While the sea
turns over its bones and the clock
shreds minute from minute?
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