If I tell a story of America it will be with the needle
splitting Demuth's needle-pocked skin-how his blood blooms
in insulin as he hunches his shoulder to shield the syringe

Were I there, leaning against a London building's
filthy stonework, gazing by chance into a street
at the moment of this carriage's transit

In evening light's splayed radiance,
in a field of scrub and vines hedging a river,
a boy found a black snake sunning itself.

My mother wanted to believe she would never lose me,

the way she wanted to believe in Christ
but now maybe all she believes is Thomas,

When I see a man
in a dress shirt, I want
to walk up behind him,

I am we: space the gift,
a white sprit of motion—

You can take my hand
anywhere. Tonight,
let it be the story of smoke

                                       Why not---!

          The black energy of that time.
We shared

The world is not aweather
for that moment. My brother
is painting a Sunday picture

Is belief, like love, first a touch, a feeling,
an inclination toward rightness?
But I have known—known—myself right so