The Turning

The satellites have been turned

off     turned away from

other satellites.

The world is over.

The world without eyes turns

to the glare within itself.

The burning.

We burn.

He burns us.

He is burning.

Barren honey locusts’ branches

are dark beneath his skin.

Branches as dark veins writhe

in translucence.

The world is atomic.

He is obese in atmosphere.   

Crude over destabilized

mountains     whirlpools of dead perch.

Even the evil among us

see him in air circling.    

See the man they’ve made

king killing us all.


The argument     its ferocity

disassembles your arms to specters that hold

your almost-mind from levitation    reconnecting

to space     the dust     the charge.

Those glowing pieces will eventually dim.

But you have stopped wandering     wallowing

in what has left you crumb because you weren’t

expecting to see Prince stenciled to granite.

The word love written in cursive     crimson

on the beige building.  You were the boy

roused to see the sky the color

he described rain.  Over the birches     that color

the same as priests’ vestments during Advent.

His stenciled face in Paris after you’d lost her gleam.

After you’d bought mushroom crepes     you

spoke to the shop owner in Arabic.

He recited all of the Arabic words for love.

He could see your loss of it.

He watched you leave hoping your

real arms would return.

Prince lost a son.

Prince gave money to women who lost sons.

Perhaps Prince was lost?

Perhaps Prince lost someone in Paris?

But you aren’t lost now.

You are back in Detroit.

…we have gathered here today

Let’s go crazy…

A song raucous in your childhood

home when you are the only one there.

The air swiftly strange.

You turn to the river shimmering.

You are under something that shimmers.

Myronn Hardy
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