by Myronn Hardy

You wear the red sweater   alpaca.
You stand closed-eyed as the red sun faces.
Someone has taped paper hearts
to car windows    buildings red with brick.
You recall a sword. It slicing Alexandria.
Epochs exposed to Alexander’s
founding    seafoam against land.    Language
has failed because there isn’t language    not for this.
Espresso in a blue cup    effervescent
water in a glass    your eyes remain closed.
You’re the lover of love yet you love
with ice.  You may not know this.
Knowing is the danger of pomegranates.
Each seed insisting scrutiny.

by Myronn Hardy

What had to shatter?   What had
to be hacked away for us to walk

on these stones    meet on these
stones in winter?

In the movie theater    I brush
popcorn from your sweater.

You see an ocean in a desert    fish
bluer than sky.  I hate

the distance we’re making.
All that made us near    wasting.

See the moon    my hand against
my chest as if vowing devotion.

I want to be devoted to that which
is devoted to me.  An inaudible

understanding that radiates.
In my mind    we’re satellites

of each other.
The world aims its guns at us.

Shoots at us to end illumination.
What is this nation?

Its project to destroy when we’re
destroying each other.

by Myronn Hardy

I stand beneath a roof     beneath
a ceiling strewn with green     yellow
ribbons.  I’m clapping to a rhythm

older than this country.  There are
drums.  We move in circles about
the room.  Our soles are dusty.   Above

that roof    stars glare through fog.
You’re swimming with sea stars.
The sea is warm.  The sea is as warm

as the room where I clap    where I know
I’m the nothing you don’t see.
The thought you don’t have.  Forgive

my intrusion.  Forgive my
life.  Forgive my unuttered inquires.
I’ve spared your ears.

To a saint    I offer ananas   crane   canary
melons    roasted corn    beer    red
wine    a cow’s head    hooves    chickens

with farofa.  This may
save me.  This circle
of sustenance    the fireworks

about the building rattling
the tin roofs.
Only the stars in my mind

swim.  I leave the temple
for the dusty street.  I
leave with you but

you’re without me.

by Myronn Hardy

Fall into that easy silence.
She seems more straw than human beneath cotton blankets.  Never that face   never those tubes
in her mouth like stems severed
from a poisonous tree.
In a procession    we follow
her wheeled bed through
the hall to the steel
box of the elevator.
I notice winter in your hair    never
winter but now winter.
Years earlier    another
procession among mourning
nuns at night.  Waterfalls
fell into each other.
What I feel is ending.
I’m turning away from ending.