Practices
silence, the way of wind
bursting
in early lull. Cold morning
to night, we go so
slowly, without
thought
to ourselves. (Enough
to have thought
tonight, nothing
finishes it. What
you are, will have
no certainty, or
end. That you will
stay, where you are,
a human gentle wisp
of life. Ah…)
practices
loneliness,
as a virtue. A single
specious need
to keep
what you have
never really
had.
1962
Shorty
Black Arts Movement
Doubt & Fear
Identity
Love & Relationships
Enjambment
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