Song of Sums

It smells of curry
It tastes of cumin
"It "being what?  It being informational therapy.
"It" being images which take me back to island roots,
to dancing shadows in the cane rows of when I was young.

The winds gust in the vocals of the Coconut Range,
flapping banners on bamboo poles, fading  farther into evening's blade
the bade of  hours, the bade of dogs till arises the bantam cock once more
who mimics the Sun, that Sun of the  tropics who ruffles feathers everywhere.
I hear a loose galvanized roof flapping in the wind.

A train approaches, on board a beefy conductor of the British Empire
He could be one of the Queen's Guards dressed not in crimson
but in black, in his eye a twinkle, on his cheek the burnished mark
of they transitioning into West Indians.  I hear the click clock
of iron wheels on iron tracks.

The Beef Eater's children will jump Calypso as so do our Children
African and Indians. If one reincarnates 10,000 times,
how profitable is it to recall previous experiences?
DNA tells on us regardless.  Race is culture,
biologically speaking.  I hear the accents.

The some of totals in their particle states continue particular.
Song of Sums is, every living thing lumped together,
every pebble, every man, every woman, every infant
in spurs of birthing I hear.
The loose galvanized roof, I hear