But how did I ever get in a fix like this, looking at all these faces,
forms of eternity. Mistaking them for the sad naked mannequin spotlit in the shop window/
Toppling over, palm on the glass like a borderline, you keep pushing mine/wondering
Are there any black astronauts or spacehoes out there quoting the earth without borders /you so country for that (hopefulness), for wanting that/hapless drifter/pushover (type)/you're national for that/a channeler/ an afro-sheen covered remote control frozen on channel 13
And your habit of not caring what the neighbors think is back/it's blackmagic again, never went away
And panting for silence since your mom just left for church, pimped out in her fedora and dark red lips. We called it a departure toward evidence of things not scene and after a gasp for privacy, ran after her in dark glasses and the mannequin's outfit humming Bessie Smith and inhaling the chase as dust as chaste as it was it was all veil for lust. Even the sorrow. Even the white rose on the window sill wilting and blooming at the same doomed sun, or come sunday, c'mon
