in fallen fruit the sun ungathers

Roland LaFont rendered vers

l'ouest, dressed in buttermilk

so for once his hands unbramble

as spun figmeat, as loomless

les maringouin, moustique, sang swollen

make organ music in their nets;

but trespass in salt and trepid light on

to in meek the earth inherit

and bear black pollen like a voudon instrument

brine ghosting fish bones a country

of prayers in puddles  rosary sweat

mais les revenants, opaque, undream

legends soiled, (sale os)

armed with wasp metal, mise the okra en fleur

to harvest her coy marron gorge

and so suffer 

some exquisite headhunting

our sisters in swamp seam stress

enbalm injun legumes

in awe burnt whiskey

til tender as T-Hanna shelling shrimps

or ol Nacin, pirogue bottom-dry on duck blinds

to watch cotton e-grets eat their cotonmouths

in fallen fruit the sun ungathers,

creaming aluminum honeydew soot

Wallace, fils, celui seed your Language,

ungalvanized, elle est

a throating of rust,

the winter of a cane knife

teeth of the shepardess

slick in dialectes all mud

under the dock au Cocodrie where Roland, all souled

sleeps, dark as a lily is

imagine her    words   suga r hatch ing

in the rougeatre days of his body

Roland drafts in steam 

un embarcation,

to ferry the cauchemar of his people

drown its ass eye limbs in serpents

and offer to methane a wreck

but what a bone yard this is.