Sitting in the window ledge, up here In this fourth floor walk-up, I rest my head Against the signs of rain in the clouds Which I glimpse in the square of court- Yard sky, and try to think of a song that I can sing to this well of windows Notched like a matrix or a puzzle of Black squares in dirty brick walls,
Which would allow me, again for A little while this Saturday dawn, to be My still sleeping brothers’ keeper.

After the sun had become a memory, An apparition glanced at briefly Between surfacing in the dark to dive into The murk of work, and re-entering back again into Sleep's allocated hours,

When I emerge into this dusk In its dainty dress of rose, I scrabble for veined sunstones lining its hem.

If I place the self Or heart or soul or the thing That holds it all inside

In her hands (her, the cause Of this desire in the self, Or heart, or soul, or something, Now fissured with thought),

As one might hand in a sprig Of cold forsythia coming in From a long walk in the dark,

Will she, if not with her unsuspecting eye, At least with her blood's litmus Sense all those rusted points of iron,

Stuck in there, in that organ, That poisoned fruit, that interior thing, From walking through fences Around the trenches of those Past wars.

Note: Another subversive use for a Black Berry; poeticizing in bathroom breaks