Poetry

I got to Heaven and I won’t believe it

’Cause nobody in Heaven’s gonna make 

A fool of me

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Only together holding hands in silence can I see what a field has done
to my mother, aunts, and uncles. 

outside the viewer,
black                         outside a mention                  of orishas and speech 
about freeing

Primitive angiosperm, genus 
prior even to bees,

When the fledgling fell 
from its nest, by meager attempt,
by pinwheel descent,
and lay, unguarded,

Famously late, light reaches us
eons past its own extinction,

Vendors approaching men with
women, holding out a solo rose, long-stemmed

Early mystery,
out of what century

The lithograph hangs
immaculate, while the chest
beneath it gleams.

Quartal voicings, the alcohols. 
Swallows in a martini sky, jigsawed