each hand is a cliff sieving the Niagara Falls from its perfect, leaking-from-its
cracking self & could still smack a cup of heaven from my mouth & i know this
because all my aunts’ knuckle. yet, the intent of the one hand writing this poem
is not my undeniable flinch, the smirk treading behind, nor the passive will nor
wind of some God’s religion which gave hand to that genocide but, this water healthy

how every black thing here is living & feels truly alive because it has chosen to
float or has deliberately gone too deep, wherein the blue lies in the literal sense, here, we, the truly living, know these blues to be a happy li[f]e
so lost within today’s date’s air, it could only be a reflection of the times &
spaces & on the other hand are deeper
sadder colors, if we unstitch
the globe of its made-up
margin lines & see the sea

inside-out, from the top, diving
down, from: its truth of burgundy
to: beneath the tears too fragile to
have had the strength to leave.

& so, if there’s a God unwilling to unearth my billows of shame, if it could
bring me my tears angry enough to become done with me, this way, you’ll see
nothing of earth remains
a true blue
(. the light you presume is, is as lost & stagnant as this is, meanwhile
under us/the earth dives into self so thunderously/ it agrees with the cosmos):
the farther you go
the redder you become,
until you are both
black & invisible. & you
don’t even have hands to seek out
something you don’t blend in with. just watch black wave until you got the
names of subtly new colors. & that, to us, people of a shade that was once
color(s), is a God-like introspection: how we can look out
from nowhere & believe we see. a fire of reds
so drunken with blues, it knocks down everything it never asks to touch
& yet we only see our self.
& yet to only see the self, in the mi(d)st of each metaphor for a death
might be finding a thing which makes us stay
afloat, a blues, a light
unwilling to redshift. &

to project our drowning on to water
might be keeping us from death itself.