Poetry

In the great Archaeological Museum of Naples, 
I visited Flora—force 
behind everything that flowers—a fresco 

In the halls of Pigalle, juxtaposition is not intimacy. 
Moulin Rouge Moulin Rouge Moulin
Red—Louise the Glutton spread high in her kick, 

I once believed in heavenly clarity—
do you know how good it feels to sing
of certainty, the wild apricot

At first among certain shadows 
you felt forbidden to ask whose they were.

Metrophobia
I, too dislike it, or at least I find
too much of it bromidic and unrhymed,

Above me in the night
My unknown neighbors walk 
Across a creaking floor

John, you asked me what it was like to be black,
to come from a place where being black mattered.

The town, my dear, is closing down: dead-
Bolts slipping into their sleeves, cicadas insisting

These arms, after all,
are open for no one
else. Posture of air

Come work with me awhile, Hayden,
I can use your company in the shed 
among tools your hands have never lost