mr. parker, here i
meant to speak
of dust, dust
and how
even
its perniciousness
echoes
godforce thru light,

perhaps what i
am trying to say:
i’ve grown tired
of singing
the blues,
mr. parker.
all these things i be,
bubbling up; heart-thawed
for a new round of reckonings,,

still, i
am not
who i
am when i
was where i
was,,,

i
am
only
these jangling
night lights
fixed
to a spirit
pleading
for the next
break of dawn
to lay me out
sunny-side,
to thread
my sternum
through to you;
bring
you a
love you
can
hold,,,, 

i’ll build
a glass house
of these
wonders, everything clear-
cut and brilliant and
still,
sometimes,
that late-june
sun unsexes
me
whole,,,,,