Walking Through My City
What is this, this dark black love I carry, walking through this city. At purple dusk, a glove full of blood; I hide it hot and close to my body — the wild crows in unison screeching over darkening banyan trees: night gathers her skirts over her white shame the white walls of high bungalows gleaming, some dark things lurking wetly in the trees of the walled gardens. I sense shadows watching from the wet frangipanni trees that raise their skeletal arms into the air to be undressed, to be undressed behind those unbreachable walls — I keep walking. the crows are everywhere. They watch me with glistening beads for eyes, they never tell their secrets, shut-beaked. In the dark, the eyes of guards under their bearskin hats are the only things that move — the whites of their eyes lolling, half-crescents in the gloom. I walk, pretending not to see but they follow me. Deep into the caverns of their ears; and from there, eyeballs squeeze out wetly from dark ear-holes and roll do...
