by Myronn Hardy
But I thought this was love.
The beginning ending the sugar maples’ first leaves.
The becoming of someone else more at ease accepting
the world as itself no protest.
Walks in the dark where dogs howl the foam on the mouth falling to gravel a
vein of it exposed yet there is laurel.
The truth I know isn’t so. Tell me why.
Explain my foolishness the argan air we breathe.
Speak to that God who calls five times. Wash your face.
What does he say? Recite it all to me then go away.
Go to your part of town where asphalt grinds to dirt where
owls nest in attics those rooms where onions once dried.
Go to that place where independence was fought for where humiliation lives
below tissue fibrous alive.
We are young among the old.
Mature among friends.
We will no longer share this world.