The Wilds of Minnesota

For majesty Andean peaks
and wisps of clouds risen featherweight
across ridges of pastured fields,
of hay and plow and cow dung heaps,
these happy clouds of mine drift north
commingle with the Caribbean.

The mountains are grand but the sea's my land
and neath my fragrance, 14 summers hardly ripe,
I was and am an Arawak
on strands of sand collecting shells
before arrived the billowed sails
of three hard woods and three strong captains
The Nina, the Pinta and the oh my goodness,
they really do smell of Spaniards.

Days like those you don't forget.
But in the soon-time, in the swoon-time
You were and are a Venezuelan.

Four centuries of fight,
of love of life, of food and easy money,
a thousand years more to fart
socialist arts and progress,
you call it quits and go into self exile,
beneath a habit loose and black,
the mourning dress of nunnery
of rosary beads thumbed over,
and nights of haunting doubts,
and still you do and still you will
Remember Venezuela,
where leaves keep true to green,
where the moon's perfumed the year round,
and the sun forbids she be iced,
the angel groom on a three tier cake
both of you in bridal dress
of murmuring nuns, this convent place

The wilds of Minnesota.