I’m lonely and the only Black person inside the paid Cézanne
exhibit today.
It isn’t the trees but the space
between the trees,
This is the year strangerswill say terrible things
about you
There would have been chaos,confetti mined from the cliffsof Michoacán.
We made a dance of all the ways
we’d hurt our bodies.
His noiseless blooming in the callous earth. I followed a dry-bone branch, spiderweb-cracked, off the Running Turkey.
I chose it,went willingly,put in
the timewith the dioceseand my sponsor,
—a spectrum, an immeasurable gradient, during and after which
the places where you were can be tracked over a sprawling landscape
