Harold Rhenisch

The rain floods the cobbles
of Paris spring. Senghor
breathes the shivering
night blossoms, his name
pinned to his chest, a moon-disk
carved out of bone,
marrow-veins and fungus: night,
light indestructible,
trees rushing to board the train south,
their blossoms shaking loose
as they push in through the doors,
and Senghor there, framed
with blossoms, like a tiger
in Rousseau, drunk on wasps.

Golden armour over their breasts,
the meadowlarks cry out Artemis!,
and the yellow mountain sunflowers
burst out on the hills:
the whole valley is full of song,
ja ja ja ja ja ja ja ja ja!
but it was Senghor who gave me
the night, the crow's voice,
a stick scraped over a zinc bucket,
its wings like a window breaking,
wind flowing through a house,
a river, weeping
Senghor, Senghor, Senghor,
bodies, black, oiled, dancing in the night.

The East Village Poetry Web