A rural Venus, Selah rises from the gold foliage of the Sixhiboux River, sweeps petals of water from her skin. At once, clouds begin to sob for such beauty. Clothing drops like leaves." No one makes poetry, my Mme. Butterfly, my Carmen, in Phyla,” I whisper. She smiles: “We’ll shape it without souls.” Desire illuminates the dark manuscript of our skin with beetles and butterflies. After the lightning and rain has ceased, after the lightning and rain of lovemaking has ceased, Selah will dive again into the sunflower-open river.

— George Elliott Clarke

In school, I hated poetry - those skinny, Malnourished poems that professors love;The bad grammar and dirty words that catching the mouth like fishhooks, tear holes in speech. Pablo, your words are rain I run through, Grass I sleep in.

— George Elliott Clarke

The moon twangs its silver strings;The river swoons into town;The wind beds down in the pines, Covers itself with stars.

— George Elliott Clarke