Kodachromes of the Island

Halfnaked children
met us singing for coins
at the swaybacked jetty.

Gold brooms had swept
the mist away, and
the island air was clear.

Parrot and zinnia
colors teemed
in thronging sunlight.

A young beggar greeted us
Dios se lo pague
with fingerless hands.

Out on the yellow
as pollen or sulphur
lake Indian fishermen,

naked torsos oiled with
sunlight, were casting
their mariposas.

On the landing, women
were cleaning a catch and
tossing the guts to

squealing piglets. A tawny
butterfly drunkenly circled
then lighted on offal.

Black turkeys children
dogs foraged and played
under drying fishnets.

Vendors urged laquerwork
and glazed angels
with candles between their wings.

Alien, at home--as always
everywhere--I roamed
the cobbled island,

and thought of Yeats,
his passionate search for
a theme. Sought mine.