Tacit
Even language
leaves us—even the train
traveling fog
ends—hot foot
powder all round
my bed—the ants
who my house invaded
heading everywhere, hungry
for what is not there.
Since you, honey,
my cupboards being bare.
I off the army quickly
unlike a child
who holds her magnifying glass
above the hill, picking
& aiting—patient—till sight
spirits into flame
— Kevin Young. Jelly Roll {A Blues}. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2003.
