let it be a million—if diamonds
bled, if Africa walling.
a younger man, a madman, the sink
filled with paints, dirt, and mud.
couldn’t walk it off, it frets the
brains, to see how racist we still float.
the categories are in four pockets,
on four corners, on four plains.
all we know is struggle. all we
respect is earned-through-deaths. one of these corners must be mine.
eating perishables. living
perishables. at my life with successions.
steaks and mushrooms. potatoes and
onions. broccoli and a lighter.
her tongue is apprehensive, oiled,
like too much magician; given mercy, taking successes, like a winner in the
shell.
we might share cookies. we might
duck each other. like I can’t read reflection.
looking for the perfect partner. (to
do as I do—or never act like me), esp. in private.
Saturday morning those days, a field
of orphans, a few with parents—maybe slung-out, pronged for destruction,
pockets filled with corners.
feelings take precedent, graduating
to caring, so much, it hurts. near the sidewalk, playing his guitar, Love stuck
close.
so intrinsic—pure internal pegs, to
do more for one than self. it gets different, serpents repenting, finding
religiosity, pour the last bag out.
like Egyptian cores, Ethiopian
bones, floating higher, destroyed and living harder. eyes with a daze, gazing closer,
amazed by what we can’t see.
like Hebrew passion, in a Hebrew Bible,
touched, and never confused; read it, explained it, lived it, like Judah the
livid.
the dying of the excuses, the
winning of the few, the detriment of the outlandish.
so many at the caves, running into
Adullam, the ghost of David is reading.
