7 août

I write my aubade. To the moon

on your back. Thus

I probably

come from somewhere. Assuming

pronouns. Are places in space.

The dilated kitchen. As everyone

takes turns. Holding

the joint to my mouth.

I leave little Latif kisses

on their fingers. And go on

into the street. Like a tribe.

The stone cathedral

necromances the sky.

He had explained it

beautifully. He likes

the subject. In the middle

of an action.