my girlfriend. in mud

 

 

 

We held hands after

voting for Obama. Saw in  his hair

a twist

 

you have to have a Negro father

to believe in.

 

The snow night we kissed

and let admit, it was only

 

then I saw the poetry fields,

entered cool lakes like a snail's

 

solution to history. Can we even say,

let alone, write about Jim-Crow in 2013? By

 

the way, there's madnesses for this dream of funk

like Truman perhaps, who said of a

 

feeling of a moon and stars had fallen on him

for having to, wanting to. Needing to

 

being a thing down close enough to be admired.

I've come apart, thus Virgil

 

as it were to Rome from the outside.

Secured to write of  the glory and gyre,

 

but unhappy as hell.