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.