The audience sees you standing
behind the podium, but I know
you’ve long flattened the walls
of the room; you’ve gone leaping
across the Caribbean Sea.
There you spin and toss the islands.
Like a fuller’s earth you filter out
the slag of insularity, the waste
of creeping nationalism
until one shining stretch remains:
one place with one foundation,
one home named Region.
The crowd’s applause signals your return.
O Captain, your sea-legs are weary.
You make your way towards me,
grasp in both of yours, the hand
I’m holding out.