He said some thing about Philadelphia clay
Bafflement and its quotient climate, apathy and its quotient climate
I asked how could you make this city stepping out into a globe of itself imploding, tell me in your own words how to be more like you, love in a space of acute attention to limits: marionette streetlamp, sculpture of a landmark murmuring about art in the age of mechanical hush
Wear house shoes to the market and grab your daughter’s hand in traffic and catch her stacking rivers in yard dirt merrily, my father, a front a sea a flood, a Marxist, I love you.
And so I knew to check for rebirth, knew to stop between pursuers, to be nervous at glory To show people as they see themselves is still another thing like other thing
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Death by Then
Charred septic except I'm thinking the color green, a thawing of it, warmth like I'm thinking three shades yawning to clear the silence in my ears have never appreciated… but you-Sound-Kin. A wizening, a new shrewd issuing sing, for him. I'm listening green, not like splendor, like latitude, for you a cleft gruesomeness treading itself scentless poppies seeping us noxious, my favorite hue and the context you care in, the color you carry the color, cousin the color, cousin and color, for lust towards husk sounds, carboned around the paranoia of ignoring a lover and a mother and a sister as inert glimmers of family grow vulgar or oliver, vinegar green, I'm thinking of two passings growing back, growing one verde arrogate, thinking it irritates me to pursue a canyoned longing to rural green renewal, drawl green, Iowa wasn't green, shag carpet green, still thinking the grass which grows out of tar shoulder, the carved shrug toward our such slick road. I'm last green of an August funeral, struggling to depict what's kept thinking.
Then, the tempo you move me to, an indignant softness, an agnostic softness, not sure I aperture the way I want it, gaunt island to peninsula neck green, soma muscle buking. I'm mummied map of the family album where your gauze is August sun vapor on sparrow wing pavement, mother blooming through cracked pattern, all greens burn. Then, a cistern of earned desire, a missing, a choir of chapped feet to dry earth rejoicing by then.
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Letter to By and By
Chances you are my Chances
Sweepstakes
Ever Since
They make it about how ever since the sweepstakes the yard is empty. Also, Maynard Ferguson versus his own accretion of inverse and how come ever since chances you've become my chances and they have, ever since the day out loud been steady called hologram expansive contest love made about an interim between carpent and hunter.
Also my sister's early Jezebel version of come home, gets mentioned on some slogan and anywhere, an anywhere you play,
you play the record ever since territory, shall have meant the universe, made about yard and dowry readymade and south lipped. I pick the kind of power sullen never nullified by how-come-it's -yours, by and by.
Harmony Holiday lives in New York City. These poems are from Negro League Baseball (Fence Books, 2011).
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