Poem.

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

"I'm omw"/"where inadams areyou"/"Plus Christmas lol"/"but if you don’t want to i totally understand"/"Perfect this story requires tipsy because it’s so white, privileged and dumb"/"IS THIS SEXY IS IT NOT I DON'T KNOW YES?"/"It's been snowing all day"

Poem (for W).

Snow: the gentle magisteria
that we crumble by, fighting
and flinging and fluffing about before
the touch-- of ice, of each other-- the same
thing
gathering about in the utmost
dust of things that were. Water
is in between us all the time, but
we couldn't possibly notice until we do it,
the touch-- of ice, of each other-- the same
thing,
y'know? Y'know what I'm saying? We talk
about it constantly. Flinging and fluffing
about before that
thing,
the touch. There you are. Hello,
how are you?