Return #10 from “Act III: Ain’t I Épistémè?”

fear is an infection in a refugee camp

the Indian poet brings & greetings

from her students, at least the ones

she remembers stumbling out the rear

of her mind as I remember a fence

I was sure I'd never seen fondly weaving

dreams in God's Own Country, a vital

goodness in that world she believes & in

spite of all the hard things I won't bother

listing now, know a campaign ain't worth

shit unless shit stirs the mo'betta, pli mèyè

but what for & for whose sake do I feel

only anger, sweet jolts, disappointment

gone from me and hope ran cold — say

nothing of art, nothing of the variable logs

again, here: I have this problem with dream

Structure

16 lines · 16 stanzas