ask this place
ask the silver day
the steady horizon
the self-heal the buttercup
the hard fern in the ditch
ask the bee and the tormentil

Dogs in spring park light
pulled by intent wet noses
through luminous grass

What does it wake me to
as sky is hearthed by morning
and my home warms slow?

he dithers round the kitchen, lifts his 12-string from her hook,
strikes a ringing rasgueado, the echo bouncing back
emphatic from the slate flags and off the marble table.

This is how (I like to think) it begins:
night-time, August, the Devon cottage, where
the darkness is so complete . . .

When naked with myself, I feel where a right elbow isn’t, then is. I let my left palm guide me through the exhibition of my body.

The night of his arrest I climbed a hill
to find a deep cave in which to hide

As a kid, Nehisi used to sleep in a treehouse. He could curl right into it from his bedroom window. He would have a hard time falling asleep every time his parents got loud or physical.

I don’t wear them
or have any
but you gave me a pair
of seven-inch goth platform heels.