For D. W.

Tell Walcott it is not his fault The line runs right through him Truth is a vaulted sea Where the West Indies brim With fugue rupturing pedigree My one discontent Is the continuity of the viral voice Splicing the DNA of our thoughts Making us less than we should be Tell Walcott that in all honor I honor him fiddle and bagpipe player Of songs written for skins Of dead goats drawn tight over dried bamboos. It is still our songs he sings Though the notes are altered things. You can write my green night With your lambent tongue, my son, Until the dawn drizzles into sight.