Before the next sun rises
My bed must be made, and
Never climbed into again. I must get myself
Out of here, seek different vistas, the other side
Of the highway, clasping her bronzed hand
(she’s a prophetess she
who mirrored no surprise but
smiled my own image back to me).
I never broke
Any bones I admit it. Nobody
Else’s, or my own. A damn
Timid child. I’m
Regretting this, now. So
(in spite of their slapping my knuckles
with a Bible) I will
Find myself a gay little
Alleyway cardboard condo
And sing there For the next hundred years or so,
I’ll embrace anyone who comes to my door.
I’ll wash away their envy with fresh
Pomegranate juice. I
fear I might grow old.
This one consciousness I know
Is doing its best to wake up,
To savour the kiwis shipped thousands of
Miles and the coffeebean berries roasted (by children,
I guess) in Brazil. Doing its best
To get out of lineups to breathe
(the luxury of a monk), to blow
Locks of hair out of her eyes,
To tell her with pen paper touch that I somedays
Really believe I might be –
Courageous (
just enough for that). Gotta make sure
I get my borders broken, before the next sun rises.
