March 2017

The faded remains of ancient advertising — 
captives on parade in native costume.
Now the whangam, that imaginary animal
led by Wharfinger, keeper of the wharf.
And you, my puce, sitting between the paws
of the mechanical lion, his brittle heart of glass.
The regiments of holiday...

these are my people & I find
them on the street & shadow
through any wild all wild
my people my people
a dance of strangers in my blood
the old woman’s sari dissolving to wind
bindi a new moon on her forehead
I claim her my...

By way of my mother, the deacon with the slick gray hair and money
clip in his pocket can claim a percentage of my body like tithe rights.
And on this Sunday, as with every other Sunday, he is a slender
ebony panel...