love poem, sort of

(for a West Indian friend)

the years of youth, Vincent, you spend

as star hours, swinging live

in scarlet sleeve-ruffles,

bare belly, brass belt

and maraccas' click and rattle, pelvis ballets; and all day lying with new girls, new boys or asleep; you do not like to be alone;

for your brain troubles you then;

life channels forms to its stream.

odd pal, Vincent, in my history; I've not a petty patter

to fill long hours for you;

but I give you Vincent printed

for the odd joy of having you near,

antiphonal to my childhood, Southern white.

Tram Combs

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