But that’s not the worst of it.
In Lincoln Park the orcas break the surface of the Sound and I sit down because I know the look on the face of that sky spilling slyly out from Blake Island. It will pour stories into the forest. But it will tell them the way you tell stories to a baby or a headstone: mostly to itself.
Questions…
They say in the aftermath the evil’s come out but the evil out there lives in their mouths. So it’s something to look around face to face, hue to hue listen to someone being accused ...and know... ...and know... the opposite’s true. I think you dig me, Mr. Hughes And when you said you - a Kentuckian - were brothers with an African that was fine and I mean that the good way you would mean it back in your place and time, not sarcastic like we do in mine. But I wondered (this one's harder ...I know... ...I know...) could you have reached your other brotherhand to secure a little kinship with a white man? Talk about fine!
Don’t look back
God has taken from us the sun which loving was too much like firefly July, watching our brother kiss the girl we were too little to love but loved with cloying loyalty anyway. A name in a notebook and the little electric leavings of her path across our sky. But must we just go sunless sad, wearing moods like wet vestments at a mirthless service? No! We kick wet leaves on the cooling coals of long November and hoist such a hard, proud December that our summerlost girl - hand still in rival’s hand - turns in a wistful flourish to look back once upon us and wish that she were half so free as we.
