She contemplated the only boy I ever actually wept
and ever prayed for: a bitter hawk-nosed Southern prayer
for [ ] was so plentiful and so ‘weekend-only.’
Sing the unprincipled hymns
of democracy, that absent parent.
Love at first is not the person. Love is not an end but a process.
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Leaving the waters of the worried. The firmament to bring light, to plough the earth and perish
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a human act of becoming, a condition flowed from moment and the soup of letters to the blissful trinity for love of my confessors.
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Picture of a black boy drowning
on the seat cushion, Latin prayers
for deliverance, revival.
