That time is gone; the seagulls
have left their rock, and the echoes
are blotted by windows.
But from this island
I waken every night
and look in to the darkness
where the smell of the ocean
and fish is gone, and
the rot; and there is muggy air;
the flowers have sprung in the cracks
of the windows, and everything
is ready; to talk and eat,
and forget,
if but for a moment.
Yet we remember the unexpressed time
when we were sharp teethed
fish upon the primordial waters,
and time was gone,
and that night we loved
with not a vague thought of today.

About the Author: New Orleanian poet E.R. Hille (1911-1991) surely thought the world was finished reading his poetry. Poydras wants to assure that never happens.