If tomorrow doesn’t come

If the road does not lead to any morning,

let the night be enough. The half moon, the overreaching darkness, a quiet December and its occupants

house the room that is your eyes and it’s discarded favours, the nape of your neck —marble streets to the temple,

where I proceed to salaam & genuflect for a last evening.

The swallows have long disappeared, the automobiles that disturbed the afternoon’s calm, retired like the soil they lay on.

Air dances over two faces reaching into the sky,

i cup you, my face & feather,

intimate, fiddling with this quiet that forms a resin between us,

every matter transfixed,

just us moving, flying.

Moon River

You have gone to see the world,

maker of my heart,

and left the boat anchored,

on the moist beach, where I lay squandered,

watching as the ship sails you into a new mouth.

i realise that I am candle in the wind,

& also hurricane eating

on a silver plate of cloud.

i would sum up the mornings

i would wait

and gift the time,

cause’ maybe today,

maybe tomorrow,

earth would betray this body

& the sea would kill this boat.

never drowning the clothes,

nor the bye song, only keeping them

in little rooms of water.

i mark an x on my chest

for when you come back,

to find the boat leaking dust,
from entropy

keep x,

as relic, as effigy for a body,

that waited on it’s maker,

dead moon after dead moon,

at the sea’s feet

till it perished.

Running boy.

a boy in a framed photograph

poses with an ended song

a boy is a bag of water

a boy yawns into a wound

a boy is scared of light & brown


In the wild something

must bury a boy

either a human voice or birds

& yet not kill him

a boy seals his skin goodbye

like a thin envelope

makes it flammable

at all the parts he was touched

lights a match and breathes




The night is a door

into your body.

A giant toe eases

into a small cave

of rocks & wind.

Who am i

to see the moon,

crescent & half,

hunger for ripening

& do nothing ?

The clouds shudder

& crease in surprise.

It is the heart that multiplies

desire, makes it a double trick that

confounds the head.

The head slips in, bright shiny thing

like a newly minted coin.

your body enters the night

& lights go off.

At the Train Station

I come from a

line of warriors,

but all cells clutch shields

at the sight of you.

This black boy

is both egg & stone.

He could look at you

& say nothing

because he never heard his father

call any of his mothers

all the sweet things

that hid in his father’s eyes.

The white light pairs

beaming in your head

holds the stare of a scion

of ships, of conquests,

of burnt thatch roofs

& elephants locked in a jar.

You are a field of figs

dreamed by a black boy,

but he says nothing.

In Peace

P. The peace of the Lord be with you.

R. And with your spirit.

I open my wrist and jackals in two’s make red spurts-
thier eyes, the grin of a crescent.
I have no need to keep this car on the road anymore.
The weed in my fingers fall,
you rise from it’s white smoke.
I want to hold you in,
but evanescent (as you are always) you escape into air.
Bliss like this is always momentary,
like a kiss placed on a war bound lover’s lips

the hastened sweet of liquor gulped before a man tastes freedom on the neck of his own rope.

The jackals, they come for me, tearing me up into light.
There are golden chariots around me, stallions with bloody faces galloping to someplace day does not set in the eyes of men who bring thier own peace.