something in one, as near locality, not a
sound in its box. whirlwinds to uproot sadness, relocate the nexus, or pure
devilry. when, please ask self, when does one enter? I remember being in Louisiana.
theirs is different. spirits become a game—wits are hassled—souls are hewn.
many haven’t seen it, many more have, I wonder what William James would say
now.
at a second, a glare is operational, I bat,
blink, move around. many address it.
something has creeped in, it sits in
reclusion, while others combat existence. I’m not desirous of war. as it hits, I
sit still. something in me is observant.
each home has core members. they frame
each other. they will not dislodge each other.
in one home, it’s normal, the next, unsaid
home, would rush us to a guillotine … for sameness of myth, for roughness of
girth, for an unspoken equality.
I sit feeling as it motions, as it courts,
as it’s ecumenical. the travesty of the mulatto—the sanctity of the enduring—some
hidden journal in its disguise.
I take it seriously, something before
light, stumbled upon by inquisitive souls; to ask for first movers, or second
inclinations, with nothing raw in determination.
people jogging are clear.
it dissipates.
I will retreat into a space inside; her
eyes will appear.
