Discourse on Pure Virtue

à Geeta The brown girl, golden, sable-eyed, flourishing yellow hibiscus, steps exuberant, august, into August— her lushly brocaded gold silk sari lavishing honey light at her auburn feet, sandalled, cedarly, with scent of sandalwood haloing her, her individualized, warm, light-dark body, her every glance a direction of the air, her look of mischievous—even tart—sweetness.... O has she...? She has come in from morning’s slight autumnal chill, her feet moistened with diamantine dew— how the sea summers in grass (that same grass that rears at the sun while butterflies mob frangipani...). Behold her smile declaring warm, sun-dyed, terracotta lips— that chance come home— and I answer, “You are light uplifting, liberating me from murk, from an inferno of squalor.” O! Let there be rum and molasses, rice and mackerel, O Muse, the Indian Ocean softening and sweetening the Atlantic, this august autumn. All these pleasures we will prove: lotus like slow-motion lightning, ivory gold fountaining from earth, like you, a fresh light, sprung from earth.