I flow downstream, north-mad, beneath

the netherworld of dreams:   not air, but sea

and stream and creek: a kind of death wrought

from the kin of love:   in theatres world over,

your iambic flourishes cast me astrew:   impresario

and scholar, you make literal the shadows:  

too mindful, we die to our truer selves, calling father!

But the fathers, all air, walk as ghosts over the grave ground.



Too many eggs and the bucket's holed-bottom empties

from the heads of African women shells: sand seeps

through children-buckets: meanwhile, in classrooms, my

brother cries   "Buck-et!", chicken-noises, detention-

sent and bucket-laden, trudging schoolyards, wrappers and

coke-cans: grandmothers keep bucket by bed;

their piss clamours rudely through aluminium nights: into

black women bending by rivers, eggs, hens, and urine

the flotsam of oceans poured in and out of buckets.

poet's biography ->