Can we just stay here in the space where our loud laughing
won’t disturb the mausoleum of St. Peter, three times denying
the purple iris, can we hobble the horses to the hitching post
in front of the post office and let everything fall out of where
we put it to be delivered, can we call the
sign up to receive a new poem-a-day in your inbox
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.
Afaa Michael Weaver
Born in 1951, Afaa Michael Weaver is the author of several collections of poetry, including City of Eternal Spring (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2014), and a full length play.