Prospero's in his cell and I'm in mine.
He drowns his books, I'm drowning in mine.
He exercises his power – I'm powerless to exercise.
The indigenous world is just not for us.
The oil dog barks at a wall of dried primer.
A stuck baffle in the duct. Escuche, joven:
do not accept the dry inevitability of
detachment or the ripe futility of lust.
Summer to the rescue. Summer will save us.
Prospero smiles at the bulwarks, foreign
and domestic. He sees enchanted beings
benignly dance. I see a black lighthouse
at the end of a chocolate pier. Be an
architect, an architect, my son. Death says,
"No, this time only the brides will survive."