Summertime
We cannot burn the oceans. Despite sparks from the horizon. I walk along the shore for days on end, ruminating about this. I picture myself as a bullet in the belly of the sea. Snows, which is absurd, I imagine snows and black kids in them, black kids’ songs are heard in avalanches.
This is about epiphanies: they spring from my stomach. I get weary, the body I find myself in is too heavy. I take frequent breaks and divide ideas with a stick in the sand. My mornings are hungry, my wife is gone, she said something, I have forgotten what (or I didn’t get it), however, I wouldn’t say she didn’t know what she was doing. I will ring her at Christmas and sing her something. If not her, my son will certainly want to hear me. He is young and stupid and impressionable, may he be blessed
