Once thought it a white man’s thing –
righteous poems lamenting time –
when fingertips that steady the fruit knife
scrape garlic, soothe kids know truth.
Now end of day, end of year
silver threads of dusk
hover on short hours.
Family that made the water
less leaden are gone.
Mirrors gang up, opalescent
as oysters, staring – the tide,
soft as zinc, washes and rises.
And resolutions, renewal
of renewal – exhausting!
Body will do what it wants.
Already destined. Mad dance.
Diamond. Apple. Meaning.
The one thing we can’t see clearly
and beg the angels for.
They, in their discipling act,
laugh pity whisper, So be it, mortal,
long, long on.