Reflections In The Window

After midnight
my typewriter records the sound
of the ocean
beyond the shoulder of bougainvillea.

I see my limbs tangled
in the reflection on the window pane.
For future reference
I keep on drawing them until my eyes
and hands become tangled
in the reflection of the space
to see through what seems to be
impossible to see. 

Perhaps
my eyes are keener than my ears
my hand sharper than my tongue.
In that case I’d say
draw on the paradise
instead of telling the stories of hell.

But no.  I’m waiting
still waiting for the gush of words
to flow, to glide
like smoke from the chimney
like the tropical shower.

Sea grapes, fan trees and coconut groves
tell me what the sea breeze murmurs
tickling you. 

Be kind to me. 
I have no friends to sing with
for I have to be all things to myself.