Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Choir (Dusk) by Kevin Young

Choir (Dusk)

Such sailing—
a wind carrying

us where.
The day steers east

toward the rising

and at night we drift
against the day.

Make it plain—

Mornings I miss
my life the most—

All night I'm back
among the living—

what may be
my dead

since I've left—
stolen west—

Mornings I miss
my life—

my beloved's hands,
our children near-grown.

Or, grown
no more.

Morning's a thin bed—

if, can call this cold
cell, straw floor, a bed.

Here, men dissect
the night sky like the dead

& map our heads
with the dark & stars.

My stomach like
they say of leaves—

Some nights I want
to walk home cross
wide water

Others only to join
the shifting choir

of the closest river.

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