Poetry

The last uncle is pushing off
in his funeral skiff (the usual
black limo) having locked
the doors behind him
on a whole generation.

Almost always, it’s just getting dark
when you come back, when you arrive
on this street;
dark
and perhaps just beginning to rain,

I want to give you
more than these words
finite as husks
or a string of barbed wire.

An afterthought? When all but one
of the glovers or joiners who signified

Red Sea had been sewn
fine caps for ready

We have eyes like Choctaw bonepickers:
Catch extra letters, all caps, no caps,
Wrong caps, censorious fingers

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