I was parading the Côte d'Azur, hopping the short trains from Nice to Cannes, following the maze of streets in Monte Carlo to the hill that overlooks the ville. A woman fed me pâté in the afternoon, calling from her stall to offer me more. At breakfast I talked in French with an old man about what he loved about America--the Kennedys. On the beaches I walked and watched topless women sunbathe and swim, loving both home and being so far from it. At a phone looking to Africa over the Mediterranean, I called my father, and, missing me, he said, "You almost home boy. Go on cross that sea!"
Afaa Michael Weaver - 1951-
I am a city of bones deep inside my marrow, a song in electric chords, decrescendo to mute, rise to white noise, half silences in a blank harmony as all comes to nothing, my eyes the central fire of my soul, yellow, orange, red—gone in an instant and then back when I am, for a glimpse, as precise as a bird’s breath, when I am perfect, undone by hope when hope will not listen, the moon wasting to where I need not worry that bones turn to ash, a brittle staccato in dust.