after the vacation, the kneeling for friends who’d otherwise not like us if we were standing,
after the first communion of the year,
after we’ve said all the bad things about the artists and writers we can only love in secret, how collaborations are not possible but can we please fuck on January 5th?
after we’ve absolved ourselves, forgiven ourselves,
come back to burna boy and all the other crass artists of our time, smoking the long pipes that were only made as ornaments, the designer zonings that we didn’t know existed before our parents,
after deciding our anger is self-righteous,
after del Toro in escape, especially after the shape of water,
after these men interrupt your escape with the smell of a new year’s eve sex thing on River Road, and the sweat and party and the boring escapade stories you’ve had so many times from the coming of age stories of twenty-year-olds,
some things still wait for you,
they are small and cannot withstand the nice sun of your walks,
they do not know that you praise the same prince as they do,
he’ll be back, maybe as a bookmark to something we are yet to read
but some day our prince will come,
after chang’e 4 makes it to orbit,
we make it home, we are in paris,
and the lights come on.
it’s no longer about listening to konshens, or pop, or de la vega, or these kapsabet boys who know so much of the world,
after the lights go out on chang’e,
i’ll be alone with you,
this saying so much, saying so little,
after warnings about life and fiction.
shall we now read old newspapers from the collectors in our lives?
or our parents, who were so keen on the present they left no evidence of the past.