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Picaroon
By Paul Cameron Brown
Scouting the sun
thin clouds threadbare vests
barely to cover the horizon.
the heat or the day, canine,
a hot tongue's intensily
splashing yr face.
The docks are quiet,
prawn trawlers unloading gear
gar fish at the surface of the water
echoing little fins like
tiny waves green
into the shallows.
Bubbles anchor the lagoon -
changing rivulets into sand
stone walls numbered in shards of glass
trade universal currency
but, beware, the proprietor
cobblestones up to his door,
a candle in the window-stoop,
a creeking gate opened as an afterthought.
Come the picaroon.
Spanish adventurer
lesser known rogue, thief
a smile like piano keys
huevos sent back.
I've seen the parfumerie
the snake pit,
mongoose burrowing into the hills
after serpentine fer-de-lance,
want bigger things waves can't splash away,
scrawled slogans to turn
the human tide.
A bottle sits menacingly on the table -
a universe on its own,
imagine her little water droplets
the key to unerstanding
a woman firm to the grasp
bare-shouldered, lips to the moon in twilight.
A coin stepped on in the street
perhaps a sou, a centime, centavo
a petty return
for rusting bells wedding the pavement,
a centotaph alluding to sacrifice
or toil in the fields
to gain one circular disc.
Bring a case of wine
those Puerto Rican girls
are dying to meet you,
the tune belts out
and I see a yacht
riding emerald waves,
think of swimming
out to greet her,
my skin opening the water
like a lizard's tongue,
a sheaf of leaves pressed back,
a rock pitched to dislodge a noisy cat.
Who tempers desire
in the tropics
when the air is to eat,
sand golden griddles
a harvest of warm wealth
piled as a miser's hoard,
green & more green skirting the city,
experience my sacred vessel of purity.
Think or cliff vines
mucous, little curtains
then pathways up to the final alley
psychologically taut.
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