She’s sexy

She’s sexy, funny, smart and sweet
He’s happy within his garden-like flares—
those puffy reddish flowers lifted in the air
in early Fall’s chill or in the late Spring
Close study of her surfaces shatters lies,
permits truth’s more determined inventions
and lets her star-shaped voices thrive

The brain’s grey, jelly-like and full of water
The distant roll and wash of the sea—
She’s become the sun to me
I’m a modest man of modest means
Predestination’s a fantasy of control,
too idiosyncratic to follow like fate’s
deep quiet for those who fight,

those who work, and those who pray—
the depredations of time, the innate will
to survive, the way life crushes us
Predestination—the fate I didn’t control
He doesn’t travel but loves to listen
to travelers’ tales, how they’ll
sometimes say “You’re a bit player,

I’m the star” where black Americans
were run down by water hoses, chased
by dogs, on a bridge at noon
one hot summer’s day
Antelopes seek no reason for
the grey wolf’s savagery and all
operatic voices, even the most

remarkable will deteriorate— She sings,
“I knew life was sad, so often bad,
but this sad, this bad, really?”
She sang this in her prime
Every song seeks to deaden our pains
You and your lovers don’t love me
but you’re not fate, you’re not

the universe—his address book’s old
and full of the dead like a cemetery
Memorialize her if only because
she passed through this world,
became imprinted in your brain,
a stoppage in your mind,
treated like a nobody when

she’s regal, special, no don’t laugh
You know I’m right, so special
Our revelations in spirit-selves, never
sated, self-consciousness so strange,
enter the hidden garden’s special
place where rough-shod longings
vanish and all the grey depths clear

-October 5, 2019-