What is this city? In language of such mites that I posit its stone night after night. Night, fluorescent in its embrace. Not a single rock thrown at embassy here (or, no?) The truth was delivered to a sand castle in an empty room, and I was away. No one’s gone to recite Suzanne over a hero’s tomb. Yet, we speak of a coming wind, that will function the clocks of spring. For this singing is that of troubadours and we’ve come to legislate the moon.
City of, and in, which eyes write their pain as an artisanal basket. For which there is no rhyme of list, only race. Each time (but what is time) I step forward, another asks which way is it, and is there enough color here for this climb. City of teeth bearing children, teeth for sailing through bone and its rattle skin. I know of the snakes kept in hulls, that matured into sheets, shine, shower, and shall but Memphis is a long way from a white wall. Where do I begin, if I’ve traded in the use of my hands?
What is this hand? What is yours? What is mine? If I offer both to my eyes. Black in its graffiti, Calvinist in its photography, working at building the final fort, moving away from the sun, until the final star has become a plastic kite. The histories of its caves known by us, what are we without sun / drum, the atmosphere overthrown. With guns overdrawn, for last night they built a wall too tall to climb and the activists that we are have found nothing of the sort in our books on Athens, Alexandria, and Rome. Will, who witnessed the killing of Christ. Too thoughtful to write the bible, because if why not let birds corral and offer the word life. Will, who recites the several geometries of our lamps, verse and inverse, who has witnessed jazz strangled by glass, who knows the nudity of salt, can a cross be cut into two halves, one for those who stand, the other for those who sit down? Does a tree solely over shade, cover from rain, and if so, how? Or is such sea inherent to any contemplation of place. Is it that this city fries?