Steve, though he’d cut youif you crossed him, drop you like a sackof potatoes if you came at him drunklike Randy Parr in the backyard,
Pink Floyd’s Animalsdrones through a thindreamless sleep I keep
each day you wake wishing that what is, is not, and that’s no way to live.
The “Lyric I” tied its sheets together and flew the coop, confessed itself off the balcony.
All the rain in the world
is falling, makinga door you can’t open.
I’m lonely and the only Black person inside the paid Cézanne
exhibit today.
It isn’t the trees but the space
between the trees,