Wine is very cheap in Africa.
white. red. rose. there is no black.
tomorrow, i wear a scarf. tomorrow
i go to the dark areas of the city
throw something, white
red. rose. there is no black.
there is no ceiling
there is time: a beautiful print
flowers in orange, brown, yellow on a dress
according to a dead man
he wore a peacoat but wanted a fur collar,
a short cable to a mother: your son is dead
we are sorry.
he thought of wild flowers in a glade in Norwell
His eyes are dark brown
black hair cut for war
looking west and saying nothing
but good things about MacArthur.
Tomorrow, no explosion
But now, you imagine a white cloud
where all the little boys see only blue sky
and men in black pants and plain shirts
see only gray as they prepare to whore themselves
His finger gently taps the shoulder of a cigarette
ash falls to the ground, an orange glow
alludes to some sun – faded in the afternoon heat
the mother of several children, knits a few rows
then pulls them out.
I’m going to drink tonight, I’m Satan
October snow in Massachusetts, 2011.