The need for power is crushing
And all the world is my trouble. Meanwhile, the observer is becoming
good at doing its task. At the principal beach the beach is an actor,
acting out Black ppl serving me/each other. The edges of society blur
like the side of a window overlooking the city lights/ Black on Black crimes.
Reality is a soft bellied woman. Tasks of a citizen include: slugging
a rope into knots and watching carefully its growth. An appeal
to the ground is not a dwelling place nor do I have the time.
Circle the viewfinder in all places it appears. I want for you, my lover,
to cross over that busy street, and run to me with food and no bricks
at all. Do not build me a single thing. Love is its own discipliner says a teacher.
Gripping at a relationship, I say. The sheer panic of not being able
to consume a rock sitting still in wet roots.
Language has no mission. English acquires more
and more knowledge. Words enter me as relationship.
This single brown bag I carry is my life. The structure of the sea
is new again as a boy rides his bike wiping the air
with his arms extended. The gap between his foot pressing down
and his realization of motion is slim and potent.
-by Carly Inghram, from Sometimes the Blue Trees
