The Book of Yeezus

An arrow does its own form of singing I like to believe

this means nothing          is ever too far

from the bird that it was   I tender the dark

with a hum we cannot die in    a legion

of spells for the Black boys who learned

to make the light sorry     All I have ever wanted

is to be the wound you neon

All I have ever wanted is to die beautiful

in hands I could mistake for yours

All seasons are becoming the season

of my isolation   The green sputters long

into December so I think we are all less invested

in loyalty these days     O you gilded Amistad

the mouth I’d forgive without question froths

with an armada of golden-hulled ships    Excess

I too pretty the interruption when I cannot bear

the elegy any longer     I don’t know how not to love

what would kill me without noticing     I can be

ferocious with my ugly  I can be the knife chanting

silver through the abrasion     I wish I could write

of you as something that would break if I held it

living for too long     O grief-cousin    phantom-chain

wind-throne    blade-choir   What is death to the children

of the forgotten     One day too my mother will die

and my loneliness will be a hyperbole of ravens

all of which will sing like fugitives    Glory   Glory

how much I’ll miss her     While yours anthem in the wrong

direction     I will probably still love you then  Glory    Glory