The Rhodesian flag on the boy’s coat
pivots me back to our day in Zimbabwe,
lowballing cabbies and purchasing
comical bank notes. And the falls, of course,
“Victoria Falls.” Sisyphus returning towards
his rock. A blind man eager to see who knows
the night has no end. A generational trend.

I want time to tell you about my childhood,
about the first time I touched myself,
touched another person,
got drunk

it’s not very original but it’s the
kind of song we’ve been singing lately,
getting to know each other,
stumbling through the melody—
not operatic but it’s something,
this music we’ve found

Then exile is over

But I, a pilgrim with soles of sand,
Am only stopping by
On my crossing of memory

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Today there was a 24-car crash
on the highway to heaven

It is the heart that sees essentials
The survivors are buried in quilts

We must enter the tunnel before
we can find the light at the end

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