S*AN D. HENRY-SMITH

decidedly

I only go there when I’m pushed there, I keep an
often bitten tongue. It’s how I was raised; isn’t it
how you raised me? You know nothing of me, he
said, the hungers I must attend. The set, the scene,
the seamstress; monologue w/o mirror,
in the spirit-thick forest: murre, mallow, mallards,
the primordial riverside. A prayerful mind is always
occupied, often w/ the concerns of someone else
& all which you surrender: in defeat & in victory,
we’re all here for the game.
                                                   Gentle leather board,
slow trotting bird. Turn on that good shit. Burning
mayflowers, I listen to sludge in the late night,
sleep w/ the light on. You’re w/ me even when
you’re not w/ me, even in the temporals of how we
chew & eschew. We both almost died, on that night
                                                                                             & then again
on other nights subsequent. We will always steal
back Time. Which is why there are books I’ve stolen
w/ wherewithal & yet still won’t return. At the precipice
of the stage, an offering unto the almighties — bow your
head, touch & agree. There are some things I keep in my wardrobe, just to cause me trouble.

isn’t it obvious: I’m grateful you’re here,
we’re all better for it. slow dancer, all
solids must become tender again. I heard
you were looking for me. when the moon
rises, the moon rises that’s it. then the
stars, moths, all the cerebral majesties.
members don’t get weary, you offer all the
night cartographies, humble harmonies.
wheatgrass, you sway,        sway

a little known fact, the most rambunctious meter: x only
wrote poetry when there was nothing else, all the cattle
gone astray.

               we remain nameless specifically. song of the
morning fowl. where’s her big spring, her copper honey?
how can we more articulately correct our violent
misreadings? war is against our natural order. I’d rather be
redacted,
patiently;

               praying
in solitude, fill in the blanks. amphora amorphous,
amphibious beginnings. this is where I mention the music;
Nkisi this time, second direction quivering               pulsing.

& the sourdough came from so far. back to the task at hand,
much too much all at once. there are the evils I know, & then
I learn of others.

                these years
were predicted by many — the whims of capital can only
end one way. I can’t blame you for the incoherence, that was
mere distance. in the last days, we found certainty where we
could. we saw the end of reason,

                                                              hope became the only
intimacy. oil of oregano, they quietly burn within, almost
immediately. clap along if you feel me.