Poetry

Bile-colored flutes survive along bog rock,
red-veined with a fine fuzz:
canebrake pitchers
hooded against the good rain.

The sound from some other kind of space or 
craft and foot           set in a downtown, US           shots
into windows

I see visions        in my head of Heaven 

I see what I’m pretty sure is Heaven 

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The fields of Rolesville belong to my kinfolk, dead and alive. 

tidal networks of black people cross
                                                   the road 
a Walgreens and pizzeria we 
follow as they walk

I still don’t know if Jesus was the dog or Jesus

See Jesus        doesn’t make himself

Apparent like I might have thought he would’ve

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This is not my making any ecstatic,

sleep-deprived screed

“Think,” Aretha Franklin and Ted White, Aretha Now, Atlantic, 1968

How a fuchsia blouse becomes
bougainvillea, or
a pair of greyhounds staggers
into abstraction, zigzag

Primitive angiosperm, genus 
prior even to bees,