A Prosperous Day. A Raw Tuber. An Uncomfortable Sermon. The Shrillness of the Masts. The Next Port. An Anonymous Coffin. The Autumn Equinox. The Rectangle of the Book. The Iron Anchor. The Airtight Tin. The Skill, the Deficit, the Glory. In the midst of the Atlantic, a small ship, a nutshell, or a cork, the teeth of pearl, the roses of the face, trivial as a trope, jumps waves, waves jump it, land in sight. The island exotic, the birds astonishing, the parrots, the peaches juicy, the water fresh, clear. To arrive at a safe harbor, after the storm, the calm. The sun warm and the breeze gentle, tepid. The sky cerulean, the sea cerulean. The fish, agile. The turtles, slow. In the holds, the sandalwood and the pepper. By oars, one reaches the shore, disembarks, vices and fistulas disembark. The footprint in the sand, the foot cut on the shell, the fetid smell of months at sea and the island will never be the same. Or little will change in it after its carnivorous, diligent inhabitants, who leave no trace, are satisfied.

Excellent Quay