Cowper easy and quickly done,
his river flowing fast to its oceanic
demise brimming from its source,
but Walcott, Walcott
makes me exasperated in the hours
before the coming sunrise that edges
between seen and unseen
in the forecasts of weathermen.
I could throw his green wine
bottle to be carried by that
stream of time that took Cowper
and left his verse, yet
I refuse to acknowledge that the act
of translation is impossible,
still convinced, certain
that metamorphosis will bring
hatching a thing inferior yet close
to that what lived in a brain
that has gone to silence
greater than the one that encases
my existence in this room
curtained to close out the night
before nature's dice cast will
reveal or hide the Sun that shone
when Walcott sat on a beach
in Trinididad and played an oracle,
or the one that was hidden
when Cowper wrote showing
all his cards, evoking nothing.
14.12.2025
