Dreams of running in tunnels of sand
And burning cop cars
Making glass
A call and response
But the cry is never heard
Sand makes
Mass
In our self contained
Timers
But how long have
Some folks been
Waiting for just the
Toe to ground reaction
From white folks
When cop cars
Make glass
And white heat
Makes violent
Gas spitting at
Peace
When will I be
So old to see
Any change?

Summer in Georgia
Is air clinging to my face
An attempt to keep
Me grounded
But how could air
Force me down
When It’s so light
Like pleasantries
Between neighbors
And the smell of
Oranges and tobacco
On my hands
Soul in my
Fingers
Historical clay
And a walk
On pavement
Cracked
And hot
Like the air holding
Me in place

You sleep like the echo
I feel in my teeth
When I go to bed drunk
And spinning
But I’m ok with
Spinning, are you ok
With familiarity?
A closeness you can
Taste then put away
On an untouched shelf
An awareness, granular
And brief.
So sometimes
mornings are
Shoulders to lips
And others are
Hoping you’ll wake

You feel like someone who crosses the street when there are pages they didn’t need to see

At the grocery
Mouth covered
Hand in glove
Hand to cart
Bruised fruits and
The power
The melancholy
Of a man leaving with
Only flowers
That won’t ever
Grow again

I used to watch my old neighbor
Walk 3 times a day to the edge of his yard
Hands grasped behind his back
Half tucked in white shirt
Yellowed by tobacco or maybe sweat
He’d stand there hands
Holding his own hands
And wait
Just a few minutes
Then like his grey hair
Uncut and curling
He’d wind back
To his front door

Sometimes I’d sit
And watch

Somewhere
Deep down
I know you need
Our love to stay
Small and bruising