Diaspora Sonnet 40 So much improvisation—the improvised way  I enter a room. The way I walk market aisles: with purpose borne of worry. The tumult of cereal packages, an array of landscapes crossed over in a plane. I am flying above the patchwork of mornings and feeling dizzy. Truly I am  making this up as…

You were a room filled with paintings of storms in the style of Turner and each was gold— end-of-day gold; gold as you want me to be. Gold as a sweet horse in a picture book. Gold in that way, your way; Gold when it’s lost, how it seems more gold. A girl’s tooth. That…

After being with you, I saw a beetle stuck on its back, scuttling its legs. I could have crushed it with my heel but I left it alone for the ants to devour— the ants did not come.