LAND Since I'm Island-born home's as precise as if a mumbly old carpenter, shoulder-straps crossed wrong, laid it out, refigured to the last three-eighths of shingle. Nowhere that plough-cut worms heal themselves in red loam; spruces squat, skirts in sand; or the stones of a river rattle its dark tunnel under the elms, is there a spot not measured by hands; no direction I couldn't walk to the wave-lined edge of home. In the fanged jaws of the Gulf, a red tongue. Indians say a musical God took up His brush and painted it; named it, in His own language, "The Island."