Are There More Beautiful Things Than Solange.

(after Morgan Parker)

The sky, the fucking sky, she says, and I say
But she is the moon, so of course the sky, the fucking sky

To witness it is in itself communion is holy a blessing
Yes, the mouth is a wound, but the air is canvas

A cruel vermillion you put upon it, haematite kiss
To close the distance, this is where I will find you again, sister

-- If you move like this one more time then of course I'll come
Join you. My sterile feet don't flow like yours; soaked

In so much bleach like clean, clean teeth: white
Is the cruelest colour, this we know and knew

But I loved them all the same those pale Gods, Godivas
Their songs with strange universals like the sky, the fucking sky

And since you said that I am sure I understood, I am sure
That when the black of you is heavy I can see your slowness

And yes, that sky, that fucking sky, because it is not heavy
And it was there in the fields with the cotton the snow and your blood your hair