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MANNA by LEONARD DILBERT It's all about how yesterday falls to earth how it enters the soil where we are attempting to live; these coral-boned fragments of ground where we Caymanians prune memory to fruit what we want to parade: not that long-time story about masters with slaves not here not in iron manacles not us fingers blistered and bone shattered within trying to conjure the iron shape of things in time to come. No, we've simply gathered up in fevered fists a serenity we never sowed from 'hard tarrace' to ironshore as though we believed it just drizzled down, like manna and we hover unamazed as arrant butterflies at the way grace feeds even the faithless, ravening in their imagined wildernesses. Daily, we put our hands out lax bodies bathe in a luxury like soft rain - in a kind of rest, a sort of sleep, in a sleight form of forgetting.