Would it be real to die of an error?
Would it be simple?
Strange is a strange word
in a world of simplicity —
yet I feel hot:
there is news of errors starving
in dark places of dark people.
A simple world is a comet, two rocks and shiny hair.
And to feel cold is more
scary and damp —
Find a story about a boy livid
with fear and war and a thousand
others.
A comet worries about speed,
further it will hit a traffic light
and blame it on a cup with wine
(oh my confidant, my moonlight).
A frozen mouth gave me “good morning” one winter day
at the end of summer.
I responded: “hot news in damp places” and
“one DNA trafficked another, and another.”
Starving are dead worries
of would-be worlds
with a scared dark boy between two rocks.
I do feel livid looking at my own speed,
my war, my frozen mouth.
“So why people are places?” asks
the traffic light. Because... I forgot.
I imagine if my DNA —
in the cold day of last summer’s story of this winter —
is my moonlight, my blame, and my fear,
my cup brimful with wine…
is it my dark confidant?