To get food for tomorrow. Baba Dladla demands to know. He sits on the bank stool. Dirty attire and muddy slippers. His head has not seen the comb.

On paper that ages and withers at a rhythm and pace. Not known or whispered from mouth to mouth in fame. Not even slightly recognized by a photo, a companion to. Words that have a grasp on truth. I want to be the phrase, the anecdotal quote. He reads on the door of a toilet booth,. In the back restroom of a highway bar,. Somewhere, on the way to somewhere else. And as he walks out, relieved, and speaks,. By a name of my own.

My head still swimming in rhythm and verse. Words flip and fold themselves. Around each other in a graceful dance. Words longing to join together. Like others may dream of people. How people might dream of love. Words can intertwine and create an idea. They can twist together and make something lovely. Just like strangers can fall in love. And have a beautiful life together.

Gateway to the Temple of Literature, Ha Noi. One evening, the sun is on the top of the trees. I am sitting on top of the dormitory roof,. The air blowing my body. My English teacher is a dancer. The more he sings,. The more he teaches, the more I learn. MEET YOU ON THE WAY. Today is the last day,. I have many things to say,. But I can only say,. When you go away,. I will remember the memory.

Brother Al, in his hood,. Is out in his field. Making love to his bees. From my room I can see him. The way people should move. The bees give him gold and the gold. Turns orange in the jars. That he sells in a room. Near the door of the abbey. The Honey Room, everyone calls it. Besides Brother Al, only I. Go into that room full of honey. I go in there and bend. And look through the jars. On the shelves and the sills. Till there in the orange I see Sue. In a field of her own.

In the middle of a highway. In the rain, I pray. For a pair of merciful headlights. To bless me with their strength. There is only darkness staring back at me. It has no interest in the pathetic theatrics. Of this scene I have chosen. For my dance to die. It waits for me to die. But it seems I failed at that scene too. And now I can only swallow. Drop after drop of serial sky tears. For my sins that stay. On my knees in a solarium.

The rain beat the lake, in rising shrapnel. A girl hid there under the rain shelter. The sun still refused to be coaxed out. Consequently there were no copies of beauty. The rain was now furiously beating the road. All through the evening the wind howled. And there was nothing that we could do. In this sort of rain nothing really happens. She did not die much. With a ten year old mind she could not have died much.

Tuxedoed for the formality of life. Respected because of your dress. You differ nothing from the thieving. Death-eating character of crows,. But the beauty of your vest belies. How long will we be fooled by. Away from all those chickens.

The Men of Autumn, Women of the Fall. I am obsessed with Civil War reenactments,. The heart they throw into each bloodless war. On each bloodless day beginning promptly at nine. Fear never plagues their history as. How accustomed they are to cannon. Roaring overhead every twenty minutes. On the dot from the top of every hour. Lovely unhardened women with soft hands,. Men with dirt carefully applied. Each in the same place on. The breast pocket of a shiny, buttoned jacket. There are no brothers here.