look who's black

Can’t u see my fingers

spread out like that?

Today I am an eagle, black.

The lammergier’s done n gone,

alone, by the lilied lake I slept on.

I dream of a lonely hill-top meadow

lashed by sleety winds

from this grounded, unkempt lawn.

You lost me at go.

My arms spread out so,

go a little faster and I might just take off.

See my fingers spread out like that?

Wider still in your helmet black?

Not I, not I, it was the wind that blows,

there was nothing left in me

but that howl, deep n long.

Did u think it was anguished?

Was my face contorted?

I could not tell as I wept bitter tears

that weren’t there.

Not I, it was

the wind that blows thru me.

Alone, on the ferry,

they watched me from afar,

my fingers spread out like that

against the waters purple, going black.

N u remember nothing Pablo?

Nothing at all?

Not Lila? Not Paola? But ah, the fog.

It is a strange ailment, is it not?

It is, I guess, best dat u forgot.

How can I be so

messed

up?

He’s a hippie now,

for some time;

still stuck on

figs n spiders n birds,

still bad with butterflies.

The more things change,

the more they remain the same,

but I seek a break from the past;

u wouldn't even recognize me, again.

The gap goes wider.

N that, that’s an ant-mimic spider,

n this, a beautiful fig tree.

I know not wat I’m tryin to escape,

but i think bus-stops become me.

Fine, i‘ll be kind:

may u seek wat u find.

The sun’s goin, the rain’s stopped,

memories burst upon me in flashes.

Everything glitters,

with raindrops under the streetlights,

including my half-plucked eyelashes.

It begins to drizzle as i walk away;

the dogs, at least, are happy to see me.

N I, I run not lookin back,

with my fingers spread out like that.

The sky’s a bruised purple prune;

this is june, ten days old,

n u say april is the cruellest month?

n may, unusually cold?