art/the world

no, that wasn't a dream, it actually happened.

oh.
but only after.

well i believe in the world,
not the world as in guadeloupe, or america.
you are my jamaica.
because my consciousness of the world
can only extend to
what i imagine.
i close my eyes and i see you.
i listen hard and i know you.
he looked through my books, and said
you
you're a fine artist.
it's fine art then for you, my girl.
he didn't let me have a choice,
or get a word in.
just told me to paint colours on my blank birds,
not knowing that they were you.
and that jewel-bright colours
might make them me, instead.

we live as birds in my head.