I begin with love,

                                                                                                              hoping to end there.

On either shore; mountains of men, oceans of bone, 

Summer seemed to bloom against the will of the sun.

 Like love from a lifetime ago, and mud.

 

 

 

 

Men like me and my brothers filmed what we planted for proof we existed before. 

Gathered, shed, spread; then forgotten, reabsorbed.

Desired and prayed for walks alone yet afraid of both their angers.

 

 

 

 

History is a ship forever        setting                      sail,

With an engine whose teeth s

                                                              h

                                                                            r

                                                                 e

                                                                   d all that is not our name.

House with skin and hair for walls. 

Chains someone was made to drag until love let them be unclasped and left empty.

House like an engine that churns and stalls. 

 

 

 

 

Why and by whose power were you sent ?

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Which me will survive all these liberations ?

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What are you demanding that we feel ?