Prospero kept the island as his heart—
a secluded place far from the sight of ships
yet tensed, the open maw of a steel trap.
Scattered along the craggy shorelines
the planks of wrecked vessels drifted,
gray gulls cried like grieving sailors.
The underbrush rustled with dumb lust
as brutes smashed and searched in hunger.
At dusk gnats rose out of the reeds,
dark ghosts readying their haunts.
He left the night to the creatures
with their savage cacophony, each sure
it ruled the island, sure as his revenge.
(Taken from the VALPARAISO POETRY REVIEW-Contemporary Poetry and Poetics)
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