You know I didn’t wash up on the beach
like some vacant conch shell, emptied out inside
and full of nothing but dead wind. No, no ocean
crackles and snarls inside them, those amplifier ears,
those calcium and protein chests – blow the wind through them
and the music will come. But I am music. I am
wind. My woven witchery has been inside the soul of this island
since time could count and men could be slain
by its clock-hand blades.
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