You cannot be a raisin, Mr. Sun,
though you are nearly so intense.
My shape is known by the sick yellow foam,
like clouded eggs, saloon patrons
all facing the mirror as if waiting for a compass
to be tossed through
by elegant costumed bandsmen from a watery past.
I don't know anything about the army,
officer, leastwise whether it deficated a stolen teacher.
Tiramisu or the sound of an accordion in which it is hid?
Sealed in a boutique cause,
I become the conversations I couldn't decipher
because the words couldn't be heard
or there was a morass.
I want to use the present
I like it
but hate that
I want any ridicule to be heartfelt
I want you on my team
I want to take you back to the happy island I know,
the tropical drinks,
the grass skirts, steel drums, the mountain pass, the beautiful snow,
our legs like exhausted rivers,
and some eternal youth and optimism.
Air is like glass, if you're a dead bird.