one never imagines to find their body
as part of the night revisions of a poet’s
imagination. yet here i am, living
next to an abandoned cemetery —
the cemeteries of Uswazi have their own lives
outside city council ideals — living outside
& inside the place you’ve come to call conditional.
see, this is what i’m doing, thinking about municipalities
while you work, next to the ocean, sending letters
to far away places, not saving for a dentist’s appointment,
sending me money for a few warm beers,
regretting my journey from arusha to ubungo,
coming home with chips and cold firigisi,
your breath the kisses of old lovers.
if i mention my quick survey of the kijito nyama cemetery
there’ll be no sex,
although we are both poets. or think we are.
in the evening i’m ready for the fragile body,
the cigarette smoke and burns, the sarung, the satin,
the low quality megapixel view of a maid
watching us throw our lives away.