Maybe Grenada

what ever made him
dream the bottle tree
dream its moaning tones 
murmur of its heedless starry branches
an unwinding mossy wind begins lifts the frail spirit
hidden ghosts
cotton skulls
forgotten roads
maybe this is his grenada
breeze that cools the humid skin
the southern earth
her simple mouth
you see this is his mississippi
where the delta sun trembles
crawls out of its own destructions
out of the moonless leafless trees
leaving with his failing dreams
fleeing ghosts
her whispered
thunder

J P Pestana 10.3.2016