A family spots their brother sleepwalking 
in a narrow hallway. He is cooking in his dreams, 
pretending chef, moving around a kitchen, 
screaming humbug at dried bits 
of onion powder in a spice container, and so
takes off to the grocery store,

his hands miming a driver’s 
who is having a heartfelt
conversation with a passenger
which could be any one of them. 
They are careful not to wake him 
for fear of triggering a heart attack 
or a fall down the stairs.

He bares his teeth which means he is now
a canine, most likely a pit bull; his eyes
go dark as a chimney, so he hums a little 
Scottish ballad about time.

They hope he finds his way back.
They tire of circling him and think, by all means,
continue your travels in your cardboard world. 
His wife feels ever his value
and grabs their hands and shifts when he shifts
and falls when he falls.

If you end your crusades for the great race,  

then I will end my reenactments of flying, 

and if you lean down to smell a painted trillium, 

then I will cast a closer eye on those amber waves,  

and if you stop killing black children,  

then I will turn my drums to the sea and away from  

your wounded mountains. Who mothered your love of death? 

Here is a heart-shaped stone to rub when you feel fear rising; 

give me anything, an empty can of Pabst, a plastic souvenir, a t-shirt from Daytona.  

Here is a first edition: The Complete Poems of Lucille Clifton.  

Give me an ancient grove and a conversation by a creek, charms  

to salve my griefs, something that says you are human, 

and I will give you the laughter in my brain and the tranquil eyes of my uncles.  

Show me your grin in the middle of winter. 

In the eighties we did the wop; you, too, have your dances.  

It is like stealing light from a flash in the sky. I promise:  

no one is blaming you. No one is trying to replace you. 

It’s just that you are carrying a tainted clock calling it 
     European History, 

standing in khakis, eyes frightened like a mess of beetles.