Manhood-Necked Naked Tattered Boy
I hope my nation is freed someday.
I am very tired and
my neck is manhood.
Let me lay my head back in a garden at midnight.
Right outside of here,
where in desolate apartments, we
realized that there are no mechanics to my voice.
Another strange call:
“There is something you need God to do. Press 1 now, press 1 now!”
But even pimps and their whores
understand the physics of paper airplanes.
So do the Jinn, supposedly made of smokeless fire.
The Jinn want to fix the blisters in our feet
from when we wore these dust-colored shoes
like we were again or still departing from home.
Sometimes I can be farsighted.
I hope your nation is someday. To exist is a triumph of our best estimates and unknowing sighs.
You — human of nation — are.
Your rose shine, your verbose apologies to God
your marveling at the Well of Death.
Even your recognition of the scent of my mother’s winter embrace.
There are parts for everything these days:
Mowing lawns, kissing foreheads in resignation
Institutes of Design and even paper airplanes.
Paper airplanes, now that tattered and free boys can jump in the sun,
run into small huts, and envy me.
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