They were soaked without discomfort
to Cuba. Cuba became a black.
When forcibly navigated
they was just property, they was
lettered into the ship, like
muting boughs. Long time going through
the fortunate culture. Like other victims
she was a prostitute. Painted
red for the government, for the glamoring
bullhead wedged in a tree. She’s a universe
of beetles. Over the bulk, the cover’s breath,
she left at external force.
At a lesser rate, her eyelids.
Twenty-nine percent of women leave their homes.
Work holds you accountable to itself,
tries the feeling. Work cries out. Now
in Cuba she is a kind of woman.
Work suggests itself a solution.