I sit on the edge of my bed,
my eyes closed, with the light
from the screen burned through
my eyelids, orange like the sun
against them, reflecting off the azure
water of Ocho Rios, named
for the eight rivers the Spanish found.

Words spin round and around
within my brain, untamed,
too free to be caught on the lure
my memory casts. As if the sun
sets beyond the horizon’s vast blue,
darkness separates me from the light
of creativity. My poem tugs, dives head-

long. I fall asleep in this small town.