Poetry

Let us remember liberty was not popular,
six years it took Laboulaye to convince
Bartholdi a gigantic statue was 
what New York harbor needed. Eleven
years later

 Take today. I want there

            to be less
of everything—wind

& worry, of leaves
            littering the ground
& love letters, addressee

                                    Universal Studios of riot 
                interspersed with whites holding
guns and carrying
people away.

Bile-colored flutes survive along bog rock,
red-veined with a fine fuzz:
canebrake pitchers
hooded against the good rain.

The sound from some other kind of space or 
craft and foot           set in a downtown, US           shots
into windows

I see visions        in my head of Heaven 

I see what I’m pretty sure is Heaven 

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The fields of Rolesville belong to my kinfolk, dead and alive. 

tidal networks of black people cross
                                                   the road 
a Walgreens and pizzeria we 
follow as they walk

I still don’t know if Jesus was the dog or Jesus

See Jesus        doesn’t make himself

Apparent like I might have thought he would’ve

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I followed the shimmer far down a road I still haven’t found 
the ending to.