As the raftman heads upstream,
you show me a facsimile
of the Arawak stone on which you sat
to bring out the guile in the Negro’s eyes.
You say that this river
flowing due east
reminds you of long, loose days
on the Swithenbank in the West
and how the muses who
finally came to minister
arrived in cedar canoes that
have never known waters like these.
I confide dark
and tales of forbidden love
in exchange for thespian stories
about morning horses and
bold-faced beadsellers.
Now I reveal that your name
has been written down
in the Spirit Book of Saints -
the Patron Saint of all people
who live to sculpt and paint.
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