Round sounds spoken softly in the Carib heat
are stifled by molecules suffed to closely together,
and humming. Movements are dream-like, slipping
and flowing with color, promising the reggae bass
there will be no end to the buzzing night.
Reggae bass, the scent of weed,
slow smoked and still burning,
the rev of car engines
and guard dogs warding off
spirits of island vagabonds.
“I’m leaving this for London,”
he says, “I’m leaving it behind.”
For stone cold walls and sickly skies,
he’s leaving it behind.