You decide to turn concede the beggar’s call.
His hair branches growing to Khartoum. He believes
you are from Khartoum as you both stand on stones mossy stones
pressed into earth by Portugal.
This is the consequence of roads the false conquering of seas.
This meeting that which is forgotten.
You have been to Khartoum looked
at your watch as sand swirled fanatically.
A black boy makes a clock in Texas.
His wrists are swallowed by steel.
A bomb a boy with a bomb his white teacher assumes.
Always assuming destruction.
Always attempting to destroy that which is assumed destroyer.
But who is destroyer?
The destroyed stacked in ground where we walk.
But there isn’t escape.
Perhaps the black of space staring at black space
from the White House lawn?
A black rocket blasting into black space
from the White House lawn.
You have been to the White House seen it through black bars.
A black boy leaves Texas leaves America.
His father says it isn’t safe not for his son.
Never for his son.
Staring at space.
Black rocket blasting.
Meet me beneath the brocaded awning
where light cuts the iron table.
Where I’m leaning in a bamboo chair
pondering an arch’s age how green
shoots jut from stone. The police in black
uniforms prance the cobbled center dangling rifles.
A city slow on Sunday wanted to see it open.
Left you in the room sleeping on pale
sheets pillows pears on the nightstand.
Wanted to sit.
Wanted to let you wake without me to feel stillness.
Wanted you to open curtains needing
to find me needing to walk needing
the quiver of maybe. But you
know nearing the arch nearing
the awning as police stare ready
to cock cold guns arms unspool.