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Fame


This is Fame: Sundays,
an emptiness
as in Balthus,


cobbled alleys,
sunlit, aureate,
a wall, a brown tower


at the end of a street,
a blue without bells,
like a dead canvas


set in its white
frame, and flowers:
gladioli, lame


gladioli, stone petals
in a vase. The choir's
sky-high praise


turned off. A book
of prints that turns
by itself. The ticktock


of high heels on a sidewalk.
A crawling clock.
A craving for work.

Written by Derek Walcott

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