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.