Comments about Kendel Hippolyte
For days, weeks at a time, i lose whatever it is
which keeps my senses softened to the sentience of the earth,
to hillside grass running lightly before a silver wind
or a far slope rippling like a muscled shoulder
or how the gradine, faceted pebbles under me will rasp
as i ease in closer, resting my back
against the rough-skinned body of a gliricidia.
All this can suddenly go without a hint
like a room slips into darkness with a passing cloud—
except, i don't know how,
it happens with no slippage of the sense of self.
On drizzled mornings, when a silver ...