(drawing
and erasing
breath, yours
floating cross-
legged on ice-
plants)
o soon-set sun, shine
at low tide; let
cattle low them
selves to sleep; o blood
let the infectious
leaven, and rising leave normalcy
to dust; cups, like coups,
do not clean themselves, and
just a rinse of old water
cannot clean normalcy or
any other institutions built
from swept piles
of dead skin
sanded from slaves' hands;
water will only reveal
how every grand name is mud
thick
as the mucus in a quarter
million swamped lungs
whose public numbers overflow
into our private raging griefs
unacknowledged;
griefs which cannot be built
(let alone back, or better) nor can
no water, no paint or patina
of experience, no saviors nor saving
bind them to itself, but fire and light
may illuminate us and sweat
and tears spring from us as we make
the cowardice of authority
cower
before what our grief knows.
