about November 2022
p0sthuman: the evening before p.121
shrunk from this poem written many years before and unsuccessfully submitted for something judged by John Kinsella and someone else
once wandered
walking backwards to Persepolis
I track your thighs’ diaspora
I sniff their chords, their contumely
piques the desert air
their least unseemly strides
just can’t be true
I sum their feathered instants
the curve flies vertical
lifted far beyond the evidence
the past stares down
its folds on folds
fold
heaven’s narrative
but nothing like you think
the cyborg ballet rapper wraps
shadows over every kid who thinks that
gravity
won’t hurt them
non-realists they pad
rainforest paths to ruins
wandering thighs
black music
good reasons
once, for living