West of Buffalo
the girls of our island can bring naked lightning down.
their faces are sprinkled with fire.
they can fly like thunder, sing like pipes
dance like night on the ground.
the women of our island can bring boundaries down.
they are particular and fine.
they are needed like water, wanted like beer,
are clear and clouds and rain.
the men of our island have arms like green branches.
they are roof and red heart.
they are the religion of repair, society of to do,
can fall on a small banana.
the old people of our island are sacred, and golden,
the withered old spirts.
they drink beer by the kettle–spilling and dripping–
take in pot like spring air.
when drummed out of the dance, they perish. who
would not imitate them.